Stealing Time
by ceridwen-amyed
Summary: AU: What if Nini hadn't let the cat out of the bag about our favourite couple to the Duke? *UPDATE CHAPTER 5*
1. In The Name of Love

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Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me, I'm just a poor little student who should be revising for her exams but this is waaay too much fun to not write, etc etc. :P

Author's Note: Okay, basically this is an AU fic – what if Nini hadn't told (or at least hinted broadly to) the Duke about Christian and Satine? Big thankies to Lisa for helping me out on this one – without her, this would have a completely different middle and end :)

On with the show!

* * * * * * * 

Though nothing, will keep us together,

We could steal time, just for one day,

We could be heroes, for ever and ever

- Heroes_ by _David Bowie

* * * * * * *

Stealing Time

By

Christine aka Piglitgirl 

* * * * * * *

~~ Frith Street, London ~~

23rd October 1899

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19th October, 1899

Avenue Jean Moulin, Paris

Dear Algernon,

I was delighted to receive your letter of the 30th and am glad that young Emily's first social went well. It is always imperative that the first event of such a kind for a young lady goes off without a hitch, and I am sure that you and Victoria must be thrilled at its success.

You wrote that your only disappointment was that Christian was not there to celebrate his baby sister's entrance into our society. You expressed worry that he would bring shame upon himself and his family, but let me assure that this is not the case.

After reading your letter I decided to visit Montmartre and the Moulin Rouge in an attempt to ease your mind when I wrote, and also, to a degree, my own. I have always found Christian a most charming, if romantic lad, and I do not wish that he should fail in his endeavours to find a place in the world. 

I had heard rumours circulating that Harold Zidler (the proprietor of the Moulin Rouge: awfully flamboyant chap, but he has a good heart) had finally received the means to turn his beloved night-club into a theatre and thought that perhaps Christian had gravitated towards this new enterprise. You professed that you had not heard from Christian for a while and that Victoria feared the worst for her son. Let me ease those doubts. Christian was always an enterprising buy, and he certainly has landed on his feet here. I bumped into him just outside Montmartre, where after some initial surprise at seeing me, he reported that he had secured a job writing the show for the new Le Théâtre du Moulin Rouge!

I can just see your face old boy, but rest assured, Christian confirmed that the Moulin Rouge has left behind its dark days and will indeed be a legitimate theatre. He sends his love and apologises for not writing more often: he has been extremely busy writing and rehearsing with the actors. You may attest to Victoria that her son was a picture of health – I don't think I've seen him happier.

The play opens in three weeks and I certainly will attend. Christian says that he does not wish to interrupt Emily's 'coming out', and that he would be writing as soon as he finds the time.

In the meantime, if you wish, I am quite willing to keep an eye on young Christian's activities here…

Algernon Evans did not bother to read the rest of his old partner's letter. Old Thomas Deuteronomy may have a good eye for business, but in some other respects he was… vice-ridden, to say the least. Algernon read the last line again: _"… I am quite willing to keep an eye on young Christian's activities…"_ Knowing Deuteronomy he would be keeping one eye on Christian and the other on brothel girls.

"As if he needed an excuse to go to Montmartre…" he muttered under his breath. He contemplated the letter for a moment. He was vaguely surprised to realise that the letter did comfort him slightly. He and his only son had not parted on the best of terms and he had feared that in a last act of defiance, Christian would indeed waste his life away with a can-can dancer. According to this letter though he was, against all the odds, doing well for himself. That at least was a huge weight of Algernon's shoulders. And he was actually writing… not just maudlin poetry and songs, but a legitimate play in a legitimate theatre (or however legitimate the Moulin Rouge could ever be) and that was a start. Who knew, perhaps if this play was a success Christian would return to London and write shows for the West End. Having a famous playwright in the family would not be quite so embarrassing as having a _bohemian, _doing whatever bohemians did for a living.It would certainly be unusual.

For a moment Algernon sat perfectly still, weighing his options carefully. Finally, he stood and opened the study door. His wife and youngest daughter stood, Victoria's fist raised as though about to knock.

"Oh, Algernon, there you are. We were just about to-"

Algernon cut her off. "Later, Victoria dear. I just got a letter from old Thomas Deuteronomy you might be interested in…"

He handed her the letter and Emily peered over her shoulder to read it. Both women's eyes widened as they read the opening lines, and a little later Emily squealed and clapped her hands.

"Oh, well _done_, Christian!"

"Emily," admonished Algernon absently, checking his wife's expression closely. Her green-blue eyes shone with unshed tears and she smiled up at Algernon. Emily was trying to look demure but could not stop herself rocking backwards and forwards on her heels, a smile tugging at the corners of her pink lip-sticked mouth.

"He's alright," whispered his wife.

Algernon nodded. "Now I know that we were going to the Carr's in three weeks but how would you feel about a quick trip to Paris on the way…"

* * * * * * *

~~ The Moulin Rouge, Paris ~~

10th November 1899

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"…I will love you

Until my dying day!"

Christian raised his hands triumphantly and turned his head to see the expression on the Duke's face. This was the final run-through for the Duke, the last dress rehearsal before Spectacular Spectacular opened the next night. Everything was resting on this. The tension in the room was at a fever pitch. If the Duke didn't like it, or any tiny part of it… Then it would be a night without sleep for Christian, trying to rewrite the whole damn show. Not that he minded late nights rehearsing with Satine. He risked a quick glance up at her.

__

She's a very good actress, he thought absently. It was almost impossible to believe that this beautiful, still creature on the stage had last night danced happily around his miserable little garret, wrapped only in his old dressing gown. Shaking his head, trying very hard not to smile, he turned his attention back to the Duke. Nini, Mome Fromage and China Doll sat nearby, looking mutinous at not being in the grand finale. But it wasn't Christian's problem that they had turned up late for rehearsal. None of them were Christian's problem. Except of course – 

"Ah. Yes. Generally it's… rather good," the Duke said, nodding his head. He was nearly knocked backwards by the sheer wall of noise that exploded around the hall as the cast and crew of the world's first totally Bohemian show cheered. Christian grinned widely and then laughed as Satie came rushing towards him to shake his hand, closely followed by the Argentinean who clapped Christian on the back and proclaimed "You see? I knew he had talent!" 

Before Christian had a chance to reply to this Toulouse flung himself around Christian's waist. People were rushing about the stage and hall, congratulating each other, then dashing over to thank the Duke for financing the project and above all the din Zidler was shouting "Save yourselves for opening night, amigos! We haven't even opened!" There were nods and shouts of agreement, but the hustle and bustle continued regardless.

Disentangling himself from Toulouse, Christian searched the crowd, looking for the one person whose happiness and approval meant more to him than the whole world's put together. He saw her, gliding down the stage steps, smiling widely at him. She reached her hand out for him – and the Duke, looking distinctly ruffled after being embraced by so many relieved performers, took it. Her smile cracked but she quickly recovered it.

"My dear Duke," she purred. "I'm so glad that you enjoyed our little production."

"My dear, how could I not? You were… spectacular." He kissed her hand and Christian fought the bubbling feeling in his stomach that always seemed to surface when he saw the Duke and Satine together. Satine giggled flirtatiously but her eyes flew to Christian's. _Please_, they said. _Understand_. Christian nodded and swallowed. He could put up with this and more if it meant having Satine by his side. 

"If it pleases you, my dear girl, I have arranged a splendid feast for us in the Gothic Tower tonight."

Satine's eyes opened wide and her red lips parted in a silent "oh". She looked quickly at Christian who tried not to look disappointed or jealous. _You promised her…_

"Oh my dear Duke, we were going to have one final rehearsal tonight, to… work out any… bumps."

"Well, I didn't see any 'bumps'," smiled the Duke. He turned to Christian. "It was wonderful. I knew it would be from the beginning of the rehearsals." The last part he said with a touch of smugness that made Christian want to scream or wring the Duke's wormy neck. The image of this was so strong that Christian was surprised and horrified at the black pleasure it gave him. 

Satine started to reply, but Zidler appeared behind them and clapped his hands.

"Well, squirrels, everything is ready for you tonight. I'm sure everything will be as you… desire." His voice lowered, and he gave a great booming laugh.

"Oh, Harold," said Satine quickly. "You know that we were going to rehearse tonight –"

"Nonsense, chick-pea! You were perfect! The others can rehearse without you tonight. I'm sure Christian can find someone to stand in for you." He looked at Christian, who coughed and looked at Satine helplessly.

"If mademoiselle Satine would like another dress rehearsal, then I… perhaps, for her own benefit-" he began slowly but once again, Zidler cut him off.

"Pumpkin, you don't need another rehearsal! You've been working entirely too hard for this whole production. Relax. Take tonight off! We don't want you collapsing on stage tomorrow!" His laugh thundered out across the quickly emptying theatre. He shooed Satine towards the stage where Marie was waiting. Satine glanced back, smiling at the Duke. Her eyes flicked to Christians, and he could read in them her disappointment. She turned and went with Marie. Christian swallowed and nodded his head. The Duke smiled broadly at him and Zidler.

"Well, I'd better go get ready. Don't want to be unprepared for her…" Zidler laughed and Christian smiled tightly, the image of his hands around the Duke's neck flashing compelling in front of his eyes. The Duke rushed off, motioning for his manservant to follow. Christian coughed again and turned to Zidler. He was surprised at the look on the older man's face. He stared at Christian for a moment, mouth very thin, eyes glaring. It was a stark contrast to the sparkling jovial eyes, the big fake smile that Christian had always associated Zidler with. He tried not to blink.

"Just remember, boy. The Duke holds the deeds to the Moulin Rouge. He is a very powerful man. If anything goes against his wishes, he could destroy us all."

"I-uh-" spluttered Christian, not quite sure how to respond to this new side of the usually blustering amiable man. Zidler looked up at the stage.

"Just remember what is at stake here," he said absently and, without looking back at the writer, he climbed the steps and disappeared backstage, the slump of his proud shoulders making him look very old and tired. Christian blinked and looked around. Everyone else had gone, probably back to Toulouse's apartment. Not really wanting to go to another Bohemian party without Satine, Christian bent and picked up the pages of the script scattered about on the floor and then hurried backstage to find her. What he would say to make everything all right again he wasn't sure, but it didn't worry him. 

When faced with Satine, Christian was always inspired.

* * * * * * *

"… you're certain to do well!"

"What?" said Satine distractedly. Marie had started talking as soon as they'd got backstage but Satine had not heard a word. All she could think about was _him_. _He_ was such a large part of her life now she didn't have to think of _his_ name. _He_ was so simply and gloriously there in every part of her, names, words even, weren't needed. She was thinking about his eyes and how hopeless they had looked when the Duke had taken her hand, especially compared with the pride and happiness they had shone with moments before. _His eyes are like music_, thought Satine absently ducking her head beneath a low beam. _They sing out to me –_

"Have you heard a word that I've said?" asked Marie sharply, opening the door to Satine's dressing room and cutting Satine's train of thought.

"I'm sorry, Marie," said Satine smiling slightly, feeling irritated inside that her reverie had been interrupted. "I was just…thinking."

"I'll bet you were," said Marie in a satisfied sort of way. She pulled Satine down on the chair and pulled off the Hindu courtesan's elaborate head-dress. There was a knock at the door.

"Come in," called Satine, pulling her earrings out. As the door clicked open, Satine glanced up to the mirror to see who it was, and _he_ walked in, clutching some papers in his hands rather nervously, head down, as though he was embarrassed to be walking into the room. Satine couldn't (and didn't want to) stop the flush that rose in her cheeks and the smile that followed it. She hoped that Marie would interpret her smile as welcoming and wouldn't notice the flush in the dim lighting. She turned in her seat to look at him for real and not in a reflection.

"Yes?" asked Marie sounding more than a little impatient.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but I just wanted to check that Satine was clear on one of the scenes, since she w-won't be attending rehearsal this evening."

Satine looked down at her hands. She hated the way his voice caught on the word 'won't'. It made her feel horribly guilty, like she had just kicked a puppy. _Stop it_, she scolded herself, _you have to do this, the Duke could destroy everything…_

"Which scene?" said Marie, tilting her head suspiciously at Christian.

He looked directly at Satine, speaking slowly so every word was impregnated with meaning. "The scene where the penniless sitar player tells the courtesan that he loves her, no matter what she has to do to save her kingdom."

Satine nodded and inclined her head higher. "And she tells him that she loves him in return. Come what may." He smiled then, a real jewel of a smile. Marie glanced between the writer and actress and raised her eyebrows. Satine fought to keep her face impassive.

"Well, she knows it. Now get on with you, she needs to get ready for the Duke!"

The smile and confidence that he had exuded just an instant before evaporated. He blinked and shuffled on his feet for a moment and coughed, looking a little lost.

"Um, yes, of course, I'll-" He offered half a smile, a ghost, and then exited the room, shutting the door rather harder than it needed to be. Frowning, Satine turned back to the mirror. Marie started unpinning her hair then stopped when she saw Satine's expression.

"What is it, love? You can't be nervous about seeing the Duke…"

"Oh, I don't know Marie. The Duke, he… he has so much power over us. I don't like it." _Or him_, she thought bitterly.

"That's the way things go," replied Marie, her mouth pressed rather thin, pulling the pins out of Satine's hair. "There are always going to be people with the power to make or break us around. That's what being a creature of the underworld is about."

"I don't want that, Marie," whispered Satine, staring at her birds in the cage above her dresser. "I want to be free."

"You will be, ducky. Just weave your magic on that Duke today and then on stage tomorrow and you'll be the next Sarah Bernhardt." She picked up the hairbrush on the dresser and smiled at Satine's reflection for a moment. "Much prettier than Sarah though."

Satine giggled and looked at the photo of her role model. "You really think so? That I could be as good as the great Sarah?"

"Why not." It was a statement, not a question. They were quiet for a while, Marie brushing Satine's hair, Satine staring at the photo.

"I won't sleep with him tonight," said Satine suddenly and then bit her lip, wishing she hadn't said it.

"No," said Marie calmly. "That's tomorrow night." She caught a glimpse of Satine's unhappy reflection and added hastily. "He knows that, love. He won't try anything tonight. He knows the rule of the game."

Satine rolled her eyes and puffed her cheeks out. "Great," she said moodily. "Just great."

* * * * * * *

Christian sat nervously outside _her_ dressing room. Perhaps 'sat' isn't the right word: in truth he was lurking. He had an idea that nobody, not Zidler, not the Duke and certainly not Marie would be very happy to see him there. So he lurked in the shadows behind a beam, hoping that Marie would come out soon. _She_ would go straight from her dressing room to the Gothic Tower and, although she had comforted his heart in the brief moment they had spoken in her dressing room, he still needed to see her. 

Christian smiled ruefully remembering his father berating him_: "You'll end up wasting your life at the Moulin Rouge with a can-can dancer!"_ How true. Except that this wasn't a wasted life. This was…sublime. Wonderful. Glorious. Spectacular. Nothing could describe how he felt around Satine. Words just weren't enough. Words, he was discovering, were no longer even needed –

The sound of footsteps broke him out of his reverie. He glanced up the corridor and saw a flash of a red jacket. _Zidler_. 

Quickly, Christian ducked deeper into the shadows. Zidler approached the door, knocked once and entered with the brazenness that can only come with familiarity. Christian heard his great voice cry out "dearest!" and then the door was shut. Christian let out a long breath and slumped slightly against a beam. After a moment he sank down onto the steps that lead to the male performers dressing rooms. 

He had no idea how long he waited there. He knew that he should have gone back to his garret, talked to the other performers. Tomorrow night, his dream of being a writer was to be fulfilled. A play written entirely by him, performed in a real theatre. He should have been happy and thinking what to write in the letter to his father, explaining how he was now the voice of the children of the revolution. Unless of course Old Deuteronomy had already told him. _Which is very likely_, reflected Christian_. A pity. _Deuteronomy enjoyed a good gossip and had probably thought it was his duty to write to Algernon Evans for Christian's benefit. And his own of course. 

Christian looked at the curved lettering spelling out _her_ name on the door. He must have been gazing at it for longer than he realised, because it came as a great shock when quite suddenly, the door was pulled open and Marie and Zidler stepped out, smiling cheerily. As soon as the door shut behind them, the smiles collapsed and they hurried down the corridor talking rapidly. 

"…getting worse…"

"The doctor said…"

"…she mustn't know…"

Christian's heart flickered slightly in his chest. Were they talking about Satine? For a moment he considered following them, but then Satine's door opened again and _she_ stepped out, dressed in an elegant black dress and long satin gloves. A veil covered her lovely features. In his haste to get to her side, Christian tried to stand and walk at the same time, causing him to practically fall out of the shadows and at her feet. She jumped and gasped.

"Christian!"

"…I didn't mean to startle you," said Christian somewhat breathlessly.

"That's alright," she said quietly. They looked at each other for a moment.

"Christian-"

"I don't want you to sleep with him," he blurted out before he could stop himself. "Tonight or any other night." She stared at him, her face etched with worry.

"I have to." 

He shook his head.

"Yes. You knew what I was… what I am."

Christian looked away, down the corridor where Zidler and Marie had disappeared. His chest was so tight he could barely breath. "You don't have to – "

"Yes, I do!" cried Satine. Her blue eyes shone with unshed tears, and she caught his hands in her own. "I'm doing this for us – he has so much power over us, Christian." 

"Why?" whispered Christian fiercely, hearing his own voice crack and hating it. _Be strong for her…_ "Why can't we just leave?" She was shaking her head now. "Why not?" he asked, louder, desperately.

"The Moulin Rouge is my home, Christian. It's my _home_. I can't just leave it." She was getting angry now, her eyes and lips narrowing. He knew that she wasn't really that angry with him, but it hurt him anyway.

"I left my home," he said, voice raising.

"Well, maybe that's the difference between us."

"What do you mean by that?"

"We're too different, Christian! Look at us! You're from some wealthy London family and I'm… I'm nothing but a glorified whore!"

"You're not."

"I am! And that's all I'll ever be, unless-"

"-you sleep with the Duke."

"Yes." She was crying now, all her frustration, fear and sadness running down her face. Christian wanted desperately to put his arms around her, but she stepped out of the reach of him. "It's not just for me or you. What about Nini? Mome Fromage? Chocolat? They want, they _need_ this production or they'll be out on the streets." She stared at him wide-eyed, waiting for him to respond. He did not. "He's waiting, I-"

"No." His own tears were threatening to spill now. He felt the resolve within him, that he would not breakdown in front of her, start to crumble.

"Yes. I have to," she repeated but she sounded less convinced at her own words than she had been. She took a deep breath and cleared her throat. "I have to go-" She turned.

Christian caught her arm and took her hand. He looked at her hand, a pale little thing, soft and as cool as mint in his own. He felt her step back to him, leaning against his body, one hand on his chest. Her breath was against his ear. He shut his eyes.

"…_Come what may_," she sang softly, nuzzling his cheek gently. He opened his eyes and looked at her face, so close to his. She was searching his face for some level of understanding. Christian swallowed and nodded. _This is for everyone_, her eyes sang. _This is_ _for us…_He hoped that she could read in his eyes that he understood. He hated it but… he understood.

He kissed her cheek and looking away, turned and walked away from her as quickly as he would allow himself, his heart threatening to give out with every step, his jaw set unnaturally tense. He could not look back.

__

She loves you.

Think on that and nothing else.

* * * * * * *

Satine watched him walk away and shut her eyes. Turning on her heel, she walked slowly in the opposite way to Christian. Her breathing was threatening to give up on her as it had done so often recently_. It's these silly corsets_, she thought, quelling the fear in her mind. _Nothing more._

She turned back to where _he_ had gone. She remained motionless for a moment, then turned around again and continued down the corridor.

__

"Why live life, from dream to dream?" she sang softly. She paused in front of a mirror and looked at her reflection. Carefully, she lifted the veil from her face and pulled her handkerchief from a hidden pocket on her dress. She dabbed away the tears from her eyes, trying not to smudge her make up. Taking a deep breath, she pulled the veil over her eyes. She tilted her chin up defiantly.

"For _him_", she told her reflection proudly. "For _his love_. That is everything."

As she began to walk, she found that she could only summon the will to take each step by thinking of him and his love. Whatever the Duke did, he could never take away that.

__

We love each other.

I'm doing this for us.

Think on that and nothing else.

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I know… nothing much happens in this chapter :P But I promise, things get more interesting :)

Reviews are much appreciated!


	2. Life Is Beautiful

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Disclaimer: Characters, places and songs do not belong to me. Everything at the Moulin Rouge belongs to Baz Luhrmann, 20th Century Fox etc. Any other songs or sources not mentioned in Moulin Rouge belong to other people and are cited where needed.

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Author's Note: Thanks as always to my beta-reader Lisa for helping me with this one. You rock! ;) 

Thanks as well to all the people who reviewed Chapter One: The Phantom (yes, Old Deuteronomy was inspired by the character in CATS - I had "Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats" open by my computer while I was writing this :P), Bohemian Storm, Lady In Red, Ami Chan, Tracy Winston, stephanie, lightning bug and Topaz.

You guys really made my day :D

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Chapter Two: Life Is Beautiful

The Duke stood by the window, watching the rain slash against the Gothic Tower's windows. _Suitably dramatic,_ he mused to himself, taking a sip from the goblet of wine he held in his hand. He had wanted to stand on the balcony, so he could see when Satine arrived and be ready for her, but he was certainly not going to stand on a wet balcony. It would not do to be dripping wet in front of Satine…

He heard the doors being shut quietly behind him. Turning around, he smiled slightly. Satine stood there, her head tilted back so the candlelight caught her features.

"My dear Duke," she purred. "I hope I have not kept you waiting." She drew the veil back from her face. The Duke choked back the sigh he felt forming in his throat and instead inclined his head graciously towards her.

"Not at all, my dear," he said, walking as languidly as he could across the tower towards her. His friends back in England would have scoffed at him for trying to impress a common can-can dancer, but there was something elegant in Satine that demanded the utmost respect. He took her hand and kissed it, never letting his eyes leave her face. She smiled sweetly at him.

"Come," he said, leading her towards the table. "I have a magnificent feast prepared."

"Oh, Duke," she gasped, staring at the array of foods laid out. "This is all too much…"

"Nonsense," he replied, waving her remark away with a gesture, inwardly smirking. He had learnt that the quickest way to a woman's heart was to make her feel like a princess... and considering Satine's current social standing, she probably felt like an empress. He pulled a chair out for her and she sat down graciously.

"Nothing is too extravagant for my Sparkling Diamond."

She smiled and looked down at the floor, and he thought he saw, with some satisfaction, that she was blushing. He sat down at the opposite end of the table. A servant abruptly appeared from out of the shadows with a bottle of wine. He poured the wine out quickly and retreated. The Duke raised his glass. Satine did the same.

"To tomorrow night," she said, "and Spectacular Spectacular's success."

He chuckled quietly. "But above all, my dear… to us."

She raised her eyebrow seductively and drank. Satisfied, the Duke took a swallow of the wine. He set his glass down and waited. Satine looked at him quizzically, and the Duke looked pointedly into the shadows. An awkward silence descended over the room. Finally he sighed and rolled his eyes.

"Come on, come on!" he shouted, and another servant rushed out of the shadows with little of the poise of the previous one. As he lifted the covers of the plates and dishes, the Duke smiled conspiratorially at Satine.

"I just can't get the staff these days!"

Satine laughed politely, and the Duke turned to scold the unlucky servant. She suppressed a cough, gazed out the dreary window and then back to the reddening servant and Duke. She felt sick to her stomach with dread about what tomorrow night would bring, and the memory of the look on Christian's face as he had walked away from her… She smiled again at the Duke.

__

Just a few hours, Satine. That's all, she chanted inside her head. She didn't want to think about tomorrow night and what was expected of her. She had slept with men she had disliked before, but that had been before Christian. Before she knew that there was another side to it all. And tomorrow she would have to sleep with a man that she not only disliked but came close to hating, and through it all, she knew she would be thinking of Christian. She wouldn't want to, of course, because she had the slightly crazy idea that if she did, she would be hurting him even more. As though she was violating his love and soul alongside her own.

The Duke made a joke, and she laughed and flirted with him. Dinner passed quickly. The servants seemed to be afraid of the Duke's sharp tongue, and snatched the plates away and in the blink of an eye produced another. It gave an already slightly surreal evening an extra touch of strangeness. 

As the last dishes were whisked away, the Duke got up and came closer to her.

"When this production succeeds, you will no longer be a mere can-can dancer… but an actress." She felt his breath, warm on her cheek, and she turned to the window. An actress… All she had ever wanted. So why did she feel like storming out of the tower without a second glance to what she would be throwing away?

Satine shivered as the Duke kissed her bare shoulder, her neck. She turned towards his close face and stared at him for a moment. He stared back. She knew what she was expected to do, but the thought of it revolted her. However, some instinct of self-preservation that life at the Moulin Rouge had instilled in her pushed her head forward, and she kissed him.

A few moments later she opened her eyes and looked across the room. The kiss was devoid of passion, of any feeling whatsoever. She was so tired, she could barely summon up enough energy to hate the Duke, let alone pretend to be in love with him.

Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime, he pulled away, looking immensely smug. Satine tried her best to smile and blush. The thought of Christian bubbled to the surface of her thoughts, and she frantically pushed him back down. The Duke was motioning over his manservant, who was carrying a thin black case. He stopped in front of Satine and held the box out.

"My dear Duke," she asked curiously, looking at the silent man in front of her. "What is this?"

The corners of his mouth twitched up slightly, and he opened the box. Satine gasped. Inside lay the most extravagant diamond necklace she had ever seen. It captured every tiny ray of light in the room and threw them back out at her eyes, blinding her. For an instant all thoughts of Christian, the Duke and the Moulin Rouge flew out the window. She reached out for it unconsciously and touched its glittering surface. The Duke laughed slightly at Satine's wide eyes and taking her hand, he led her over to a mirror by the tower's window. He took the necklace from the case and wrapped it around her neck. The weight of it was incredible. Satine suddenly understood why so many of the aristocratic ladies she'd seen in carriages in Paris were hunched over: they simply couldn't carry the weight of their jewellery. 

"Oh, Duke… I don't know what to say…"

He smiled again. "Consider it a gift from this maharajah to his courtesan."

That snapped Satine out of her diamond-induced daze. He was trying to _buy_ her. As if by just flashing a ludicrously expensive and exquisitely beautiful diamond necklace he could win her that easily. Satine's thoughts clicked back to Christian… He could never afford anything like this, not even if he worked for fifty years. And yet, after knowing her for five minutes (during which, she realised, he must have thought she was totally insane) he had written her a song. And, then a whole play and another, secret, song something that couldn't be given to anybody else. Dear Christian… She wouldn't trade him for all the diamonds in the world. She realised that the Duke was watching her intently, anxiously awaiting her verdict and smiled sensuously, running her fingers over the jewelled piece.

"I've never had a gift like it."

"Good," he smiled, relief evident on his face. "There will be much more than that once you are completely mine…" She gave him what she hoped was a longing look: he certainly interpreted it well because his smile widened. He turned away from her to get more wine, and Satine looked at her reflection in the mirror and touched the necklace gingerly. She thought of Christian in his tiny, dirty garret and sighed. 

No matter what she told herself, no matter how hard she tried not to think about him, she _was_ betraying him.

She couldn't bear it.

She simply could not bear it. 

* * * * * * *

Christian stared blankly at the typewriter in front of him. The party upstairs had died out, or at least moved on somewhere else. He was trying to keep his mind off the Gothic Tower by writing a letter to his family, but his gaze kept drifting to the imposing building to the left of his view. He was trying not to think of her and the Duke together, certain that those thoughts would bring him nothing but misery. He sighed exasperatedly and hit the side of the typewriter roll with the palm of his hand. It made a horrible, clanging noise of protest, and he winced. Gingerly, he checked the damage. A typewriter was an essential piece of equipment to any writer, and he certainly could not afford a new one. Satisfied no lasting damage had been done, he stood up and paced his room, then, finding that it was far too small to get any serious pacing done, he strode outside, past the red _'L'amour'_ sign. It had finally stopped raining, and the moon was struggling to peer its way through the clouds.

He paused and looked towards the Tower. He knew what he really needed was to go for a long walk and burn off all the nervous energy he was using, but there was no way he was going to leave. What if Satine needed him? He knew she was tougher than she looked, but he also knew if he so much as left the garret for a quick drink or to get the papers, he might spontaneously combust with worry.

Ducking back into the apartment, he looked at the pocket watch lying open on next to the typewriter to see what time it was. He started in surprise when he saw it was 1 o'clock. He knew he had sat down at the typewriter at 10… Had he really been sitting there for three hours? He rubbed his temples ruefully. It was entirely possible… He'd always found trying to keep his mind blank a difficult task. _Head in the clouds…_ That's what his mother had always said. He looked guiltily at the typewriter.

__

I really should get started on that letter, he thought vaguely. He looked back towards the Gothic Tower. The windows let out a flickering candlelight, but as Christian stared, the furthermost window's light went out. For a moment he stayed stock-still, his tired brain struggling to comprehend what this meant as the other lights were extinguished. Finally his thoughts rearranged themselves into a coherent realisation: _Dinner's over._

He leapt over his chair, stumbling, and grabbed his coat from a hook near the door. He pulled it on as he raced down the stairs and out the front door. He knocked into a couple dancing just outside and shouting his apologies behind his shoulder, he ran in the direction of the Tower. He skidded to a stop on the wet ground, his eyes scanning the road hungrily for a glance of his Satine.

"Oh, where are you, where _are_ you?" he moaned in a fever of desperation, not wanting to think of the possibility that she might still be inside.

Then he spotted her. She had just stepped out of the Tower's front door. There was something in her right hand. Christian squinted, but all he could tell was that it was thin black case. He started towards her, but stumbled as the Duke and his manservant followed her out. He quickly retreated back to the shadows and stood against the wall, heart pounding, his breath coming out in great rags. He listened.

"…the most wonderful evening, dear Duke," Satine was saying, smiling flirtatiously. The Duke took her hand and raised it to his lips. He murmured something, and Christian ground his teeth without realising it.

"Come, Satine," the Duke was saying, taking her arm and placing it in his. "We shall walk you back to your dressing room."

"No," said Satine quickly. Christian couldn't see the Duke's face but he saw the surprise the Duke must have felt in his body language. "I-I wanted to go see… the writer. And Toulouse and the rest of the cast," she added hastily. "I haven't had a chance to, uh, congratulate everybody yet, or wish them luck."

"Well, perhaps I could you walk you there…"

"No! No, no, that's very kind of you, but… it's quite out of your way. And I know these streets well. I will be perfectly safe, dear Duke."

"If you're certain…" said the Duke uncertainly.

"Quite certain," said Satine crisply, lightly pulling her arm free from his. Christian smiled despite himself. He watched as they said their goodbyes, reluctant in the Duke's case and bordering on impatience in Satine's. Christian watched as the Duke eventually made his way up the street and with one last look, out of sight. Satine's shoulders sagged, and she rubbed her forehead. Christian came out of the shadows.

"Satine!" he hissed, uncertain that the Duke was really gone: that weaselly little man had an unfortunate habit of appearing when he was least wanted. She started and whirled around, hand on her heart.

"Christian!" she hissed back. "What are you doing here?" She came over towards him, and Christian took her hand, pulling her closer.

"Looking for you. I saw the lights go out…" He looked hopefully at her. She gave him a disapproving look.

"You shouldn't have. If he saw you…"

"I don't care," said Christian stubbornly.

"No." She ventured a small smile. "I'm glad you are here though." In response, Christian hugged her closely, and she gripped his coat tightly with her hands, burying her face in his neck. They stayed like that for a moment. Then Christian frowned. He pulled away from Satine slightly, suddenly remembering the black case.

"What's this?" he asked taking the case from her hand.

"Oh!" said Satine quickly. "It's nothing…" She made a snatch for the case but it was too late. Christian opened it. His jaw dropped as his face was lit up by the silvery light of the diamonds.

"Wow," he said after a while. Satine said nothing but stared at his face anxiously. Christian couldn't tear his eyes away from the necklace. He'd never seen anything like it…

"It's a present from the Duke," whispered Satine finally.

"A present?" asked Christian sharply, looking up at her. "What for?"

Satine eyes widened and two dots of colour appeared in her cheeks.

"A present _for_ _me_," she said quietly. "It's not _for_ anything else."

Christian didn't reply straight away, not because he didn't believe her, more that he couldn't think of anything else to say.

"What?" asked Satine, her eyes narrowing and her tone icy. "What do you think I would do to get this-this… thing?"

"Nothing," said Christian quickly, shutting the case with a clip and handing it back to her. "It's just that…"

"What?"

"Men like the Duke…I know people like that. They were the type of people my father wanted to be friends with," he said somewhat bitterly. "They don't give out necklaces like _that_ for – "

"For what?" spat Satine, eyes flashing. Christian said nothing, wondering how on earth they had managed to get _here_.

"For nothing?" she continued, her voice rising. "You think I would sleep with him for _this_?" She brandished the case in front of his face.

"Satine, darling, that's not what I meant…" He stepped forward but she stepped backwards, glaring at him.

"I can't believe you would think that of me," she said shaking her head. Her voice was trembling. "Anybody else, but not you…"

"Think what?" said Christian desperately. "I'm not thinking of anything." He reached out to touch her arm, but she jumped backwards, shrieking and losing all her composure.

"Don't you _dare_ touch me!" She dropped the box on the floor, where it clattered but did not open.

Christian stared at her, aghast. "Darling, what's wrong..?"

"What's wrong?" she said, her eyes wide with tears and chest heaving with emotion. "I've just had the _worst_ evening of my _life_, and all that could get me through it was the thought of _you_ and now you're accusing me of – of _whoring_ myself for a piece of _jewellery_!" She cupped her hand over her mouth, sobs wracking her body.

"No, darling, no…" whispered Christian, unable to believe that this was happening. He reached for her again, but she batted his hands away.

"I'm going home," she whispered. "Don't even try to follow me. I don't want to even _look_ at you." She turned from him and took a step away. 

Christian stared after her in amazement. _She'll come back,_ he thought. 

She took another step.

Doubt inched into his mind.

__

She doesn't mean it.

She took a third step.

Doubt swarmed and over ran him.

__

She means it. She's leaving you.

She started to take a fourth step, paused and then whirled around and ran back to his arms.

"Oh, Christian, I didn't mean that, I didn't, I didn't, not a single syllabub of it."

Now, Christian knew that she meant to say "not a single syllable of it," because a syllabub is something you eat, with cream and wine mixed in together to form the base. But he also knew an apology when he heard one. So he held her very close, and shut his loving eyes, and only whispered, "I knew it was false, believe me, every single syllabub." 

Satine wailed slightly. "I've just had such a beastly night… I'm so _tired_…"

"I know, love, I know," soothed Christian, rocking her like he would a child. "It's over now, we're together now."

"Yes," she sighed, pulling away and smiling at him with red-rimmed eyes. She sniffed. "I'm so sorry. I know you wouldn't-"

"I know," he interrupted smiling gently at her. "It's okay, darling, it's all right."

She looked hopefully at him. "Really?"

"Of course. I shouldn't have…" He paused. "I'm sorry too." 

She laughed lightly. "We're both so stupid…"

"Yes," he agreed. "We deserve each other completely."

She smiled brightly and kissed him lightly. Christian sighed happily and rested his chin on her head. After a moment, he pulled away and offered his arm.

"Come, Satine," he said in his most nasal voice. "We shall walk you back to your dressing room." Satine giggled and took his arm. "Thank you, dear sir." They started walking, but then Christian stopped, suddenly remembering the black case lying on the pavement.

"We should take that," he said pointing.

"Oh, leave it," said Satine, screwing her face up in distaste. "It's ghastly, let some drunk have it…" Christian looked at her in amazement. 

"What?" she asked.

"Whatever happened to 'diamonds are a girl's best friend'?"

She cocked her head to one side, as if he were being especially slow. "You did." 

Christian couldn't help the grin that slid over his face. He shook his head.

"We should take it," he said reasonably. "What if the Duke wants to see it?" 

Satine sighed. "I suppose." She bent down and picked up the case, holding it gingerly in her right hand, as though it would burn her. "I just don't want to keep the cause of our first argument," she explained, taking his arm with her left arm.

"Is that what it was?" asked Christian, slightly bemused. "I wouldn't have thought of it like that…"

Satine gave him a curious look. "What would you have thought of it as?"

"I would have preferred not to think about it at all."

Satine smiled ruefully. "Then let's not think of it at all." She kissed him. "Deal?"

"Oh, yes," said Christian, grinning.

"Come on then," she said. She tilted her chin up and gave him a condescending look. "Escort me back to my dressing room."

"Yes, milady," said Christian mock-formally. Satine laughed and leant her head against his shoulder as they walked. After a while she sighed and looked up at him. She kissed him on the cheek.

"La vita é bella."

Christian smiled bemusedly at her. "What does that mean?"

"Life is beautiful," she said, then added, "Now that you're in my life."

He laughed softly, then nuzzled her ear. "How wonderful life is," he sang softly, "now you're in the world."

Satine turned her head and smiled. The moonlight that peeked out from the clouds illuminated her face with a soft glow. He kissed her, and as she wrapped her arms around his neck the words she had spoken echoed and turned in his mind like sails of a windmill.

__

La vita é bella.

How true they are when you love and are loved in return.

* * * * * * *

****

A/N: I have a huge amount of obsessions and they usually all turn up in my fan fics in quotes or references. This chapter's candidates are:_ The Princess Bride by William Goldman_ (the syllable/syllabub mix up) and the Roberto Benigni (sp?) film, _La Vita é Bella _or_ Life Is Beautiful._

Reviews are always appreciated… :D


	3. The Show Must Go On

****

Disclaimer: I own none of this, blah de blah blah. 

****

Author's Note: I don't write Toulouse's lisp because… well, you all know what he sounds like… ;)

Also, I'm sorry that this chapter's taken me so long to update. Blame life. Anyhow, I'm not neglecting this story – I've done a lot of work on it because it's my baby. ;D And this chapter's extra long to make up for the long wait. That's if there's anyone still reading this thing….

__

Chapter Three: The Show Must Go On

The doors of the Moulin Rouge were always closed in the morning. All signs of life were scattered away after the moon faded and the sun rose. Its inhabitants and performers slept, oblivious to the bustle of the day. Occasionally, sometime mid-afternoon, a few souls would emerge and wander through Montmartre, looking for fabric for costumes, food for performers and whatever else was needed. But never in the morning.

Technically however, Zidler was not breaking the unwritten rule that the Moulin Rouge should not be opened in the morning: he had simply left it open all night. Many of the performers, drunk and giggling, had returned at about three in the morning and held a half-hearted party. Most fell asleep on the floor and woke up the next morning wincing and rubbing sore limbs.

By ten o'clock the main dance hall of the Moulin Rouge was alive with people rushing hither and thither. The audience's chairs were finally being installed, and some of the dancers watched mutinously as the polished floorboards were covered. A few held a final dance recital but were continually pushed towards the stage and eventually gave up.

Christian stood in the middle of the chaos on the stage and reflected that walking Satine back to her dressing room the night before had perhaps not been the most brilliant idea he'd ever had. He had genuinely meant to do the honourable thing: escort her back to her room and make sure that she was comfortable and then head off home to get some much needed rest. _The first part went all right,_ he mused to himself, _and the second went quite well. It was just the getting back home that didn't quite work_… He shook his head ruefully. _Ah, well_. 

He glanced around the auditorium and wasn't very surprised that Satine wasn't there. He supposed she must be backstage practising her lines with the Argentinean. Suddenly, he was thrown out of his thoughts by Chocolat cuffing him across the head with his ankle. 

"Sorry!" Chocolat called, dangling somewhat ungainly from a harness a few feet off the ground. He held out a hand to help Christian up but was hoisted up before Christian could grasp it. He stopped again, now hanging just below the curtain line. "Trevor!" he shouted up at the platform above the stage, "Not so hard!"

Christian could just make out a hand waving in the gloom of backstage and a call of "sorry!". Shaking his head, he got up and dusted himself off. He called up to Chocolat that he was quite all right and tried to get down from the stage. A troupe of Diamond Dogs whirled past him, practising a dance routine and thoroughly blocking off his escape route.

"Excuse me!" he called. "Could I just…just..." 

He tried to squeeze past their shoulders, but they flicked their hair and winked at him. Perhaps at one time this would have made his knees go weak, but after working with them and knowing all about Nini's dreadful temper, Arabia's penchant for piercings and China Doll's love of face powder, their allure had somehow worn off. That and meeting Satine, of course. He couldn't imagine looking at another woman the way he looked at Satine.

"Look, please, I need to get down…If I could just get through here…" 

The girls cackled at him and Araby stuck out her tongue. Losing all composure, Christian stuck his out back at her. This provoked even louder giggles, and Christian finally decided to do the rude thing and pushed them apart, hurrying down the steps, ignoring the amused glances of everyone round him.

"Alright everybody!" The voice of Harold Zidler broke through the solid wall of noise as he marched across the stage. The Diamond Dogs parted for him and looked pointedly at Christian. He rolled his eyes.

"Settle down, settle down…" Zidler motioned with his hands, and everybody stepped closer to the stage. "I'd like to do a quick run-through of the whole show – just to make sure everything's fine!" he added over the protests of many hung-over performers loitering in the wings. Zidler sent one of the stagehands to find Satine and the Argentinean, and after much glowering and muttering, the cast moved into first positions. Christian went to the side of the stage where he usually stood, battered script in hand. He nodded at Zidler, suddenly remembering the man's strange behaviour the night before. Still, there wasn't any time to ponder it, not now anyway.

"She is mine!" screeched Zidler as the Maharajah and Satie's harassed looking musicians shouted "We're not ready yet!". Christian sat down on the stage steps while the orchestra sorted themselves out and smiled at Satine who was walking onto the stage, talking to the Argentinean. She noticed and smiled back. She made a move to come towards him, but Toulouse suddenly appeared at Christian's side.

"Excuse me Christian, but-"

"The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return."

"Thank you."

Toulouse scurried back to his position, muttering furiously under his breath. Satine watched him go and giggled at Christian.

"Ready!" called Satie from the orchestra and Christian smiled regretfully as Satine turned away and got into her position as the Hindu Courtesan. He nodded and raised his hand in a signal to Zidler to start and then settled back to watch his play unfold.

* * * *

Emily stared up at the Eiffel Tower in awe, her face pressed up against the window of the carriage.

"Emily, dear, please don't do that to your face," said Victoria, leaning over and touching her daughter's arm. "It looks as though you're pulling faces at the passers-by."

"Sorry, mother," said Emily, tearing her gaze away from the view. "I've never seen anything like it!"

"No," agreed her mother. "It is wonderful… Don't you think so, Algernon?" 

He grunted his reply, and Victoria and Emily exchanged weary looks. Algernon was an ordered, disciplined man and had always considered the bohemian movement and everything it stood for as a dangerous revolution, upsetting the delicate balance of life. The carriage was nowhere near Montmartre yet and his mood was already sour.

Algernon coughed and his wife and youngest daughter turned back to look at him.

"We'll go to the hotel and have a bite to eat," he said, his voice as clipped as military sergeant, "and then we'll meet Deuteronomy-"

"Oh, I didn't know Thomas was coming," remarked Victoria idly. Algernon glanced out of the window at the river glittering under the bridge they were travelling across.

"Oh yes. He's very much looking forward to seeing this play. Apparently all the…" he hesitated, searching for the polite word. "…_People_ in Montmartre are extremely excited about it."

Emily smiled. "I'm excited as well," she said, pressing her face against the window again. "Ooh! Is that Montmartre?" She pointed towards a snowy white dome on the top of a hill.

"How should we know?" said Algernon gruffly. "We've been to Paris as many times as you have."

"Algernon," admonished Victoria gently and he sighed heavily. Victoria looked from her excited daughter and increasingly ill-tempered husband. _Really_, she thought, gazing out the window to Montmartre_, it'll be wonderful to see Christian again… At least there will be someone else around who's calm... _

* * * *

"The greatest thing you'll ever learn, is just to love and be loved in return!" cried Christian gripping his hair with his hands. "How hard is that to remember, Toulouse?"

Toulouse shrugged, his white-painted face cracking into a grin. "Well, that's the problem with Absinthe. It does tend to make you forgetful…"

"But it's the most simple line in the play! How can you not remember it?"

"Christian, Christian," said Toulouse, as though Christian was missing a very important point. He patted the taller man's hip, unable to reach Christian's arms, which were still gripping his. "I cannot explain my vices… They are a part of who I am."

The Doctor handed Christian a glass of the green liquid and Christian knocked it back, spluttering slightly. The taste of Absinthe was still something he was trying to acquire. He sat down heavily on the stairs behind him, heedless of the performers around him. 

He and the other Bohemians were by the main staircase backstage that led from the dressing rooms to the stage area. He dropped the glass and looked at the clock on the stairwell. An hour till the curtain went up.

"This is it," he said glumly, staring at the clock as if it was the key to his doom. "Everything I've worked on for the last few months… and the only person who knows his lines is the only person who keeps falling asleep on stage!" He drew his knees up and rested his head in his arms. 

"Now, now," said the Argentinean, sitting next to him. "Satine knows all her lines as well."

"That's true," said Christian, brightening at the thought of Satine.

"Of course it is," said the Argentinean with a dramatic flourish of his hands. "Satine will be able to carry the play if anything happens." Christian nodded and then turned to Toulouse. 

"What's your line?" he demanded.

"The greatest thing you'll ever learn," said Toulouse promptly, "is just to love and be loved in…" Toulouse hesitated, suddenly uncertain.

"Return," said Christian sadly, picking his glass up and holding it up to the Doctor for a refill.

"Return! See? I'm almost there…" 

Christian shook his head. "If it goes well tonight," he muttered, getting up a little woozily, "it'll be a miracle…"

* * * * 

Algernon looked around the small street disdainfully. They had arranged to meet Deuteronomy outside the theatre at seven thirty, and it was now quarter to and there was no sign of him. The streets outside _La Théatre du Moulin Rouge_ were humming with excited people, who were thankfully well dressed and reasonably courteous. Algernon had been quite worried that he would be forced to rub shoulders with Bohemians, but everyone looked neat and orderly. Some of the ladies' dresses were a little… risqué, perhaps, but nothing more. It might even have been the fashion – didn't they always say that Paris was the cutting edge of fashion?

"Where is that man?" asked Algernon impatiently, looking at his pocket watch for the umpteenth time and then placing it back in his breast pocket. Emily was gazing around with an extremely interested look on her thin face, her fingers drumming the satin of her purse. "Don't do that," he snapped at her and she obediently stopped but continued to look around.

"Calm down, darling," said Victoria gently, patting her husbands arm soothingly. "Deuteronomy will be along any-"

"Vicky!" boomed a rather familiar voice across the crowd. _Oh no_, thought Algernon as they turned towards the source of the voice. _Not him. _Anybody_ but him…_

A skinny man emerged from the crowd behind them, his frame completely unsuitable for the gruff, ear-splitting voice that emerged. He had rather thick lips that made him look like an ill fish, thought Algernon uncharitably. His skin was tanned and craggy as only that of well-travelled people could. Algernon had always had trouble believing that this rough, boisterous and quite frankly, _strange_ man was the brother of demure Victoria. _Although she certainly had her moments_, he thought reflectively…

"Lolol," said Victoria, looking very surprised and a little embarrassed at the curious glances from the theatregoers. "What are you doing here? I thought that you were in Venice…"

"Venice? Good lord, no. All those flies and water? I turned back when I got four miles of the place… Emily!" Lolol swooped down on his niece, and she laughed as he kissed her on the cheek.

"How wonderful it is to see you, Uncle Lolol!" she said, smiling brightly at him.

"It's been far too long, far too long, my dear… But where is your older sister?"

"Joan could not, unfortunately, make it," began Algernon. "Percy had some important business come up and-" 

"It is a wife's duty to be with her husband," recited Lolol, rolling his eyes alarmingly. 

Algernon frowned. "And what, may I ask, are _you_ doing here, Lolol?"

"Visiting friends of course!"

Algernon sighed. If the man had as many friends as he claimed to have, there was probably not a single person on the entire planet that had no connection to Lolol Warburton. The man in question laughed and nudged Algernon in the ribs jovially.

"Yes, I was visiting friends on the other side of town and one of them had a ticket for this. Anyway, at the last moment, he had to deal with some family business and he gave the ticket to me. I came along, completely unaware of what it was about when I found this!" He brandished a red and gold programme in front of them. "You can imagine my surprise when I saw this." He jabbed a finger at the gold lettering at the bottom of the front cover. "Written and directed by Christian Evans," Lolol cried, translating the French into English, "The Voice of the Children of the Revolution!" He beamed at them. "I didn't even know the boy was in Paris! I haven't seen him in years-"

"He's the voice of the what?" asked Algernon, having a sudden intuition that he wouldn't like this.

"The Children of the Revolution! The Bohemian Revolution, Algernon! He is their voice, Victoria, isn't that wonderful?"

"It's marvellous," said Victoria smiling indulgently at him and taking the programme.

"You must be very proud of your boy, Al," smiled Lolol and Algernon winced at the shortening of his name. "He's done so well out here…"

"I perhaps would have been prouder if he had left with our permission," Algernon replied dryly.

"Oh dear," said Lolol, replacing his broad smile with a look of intense concern. Algernon had the distinct impression that Lolol was mocking him, which only served to increase Algernon's bad mood.

"It was like that, was it?" Lolol grunted disapprovingly and shook his head. "Well, we were all young once."

"Christian is a man now, Lolol. He is 24 years old! He should have settled down by now… If you hadn't taken him off to Europe all those years ago, perhaps he would be married and living a comfortable-"

"Oh, pish! Christian wanted to come… It was good for a boy his age to get some experience of the world!"

"Not the type of world you showed him. The boy is a complete idealist-"

"Oh, let him have his fun… He doesn't want to turn out to be a stuffy old shirt like you!" 

Algernon purpled and opened his mouth to reply.

"Lolol," said Victoria hurriedly, recognising the signs of her husband's anger. "Perhaps you, Emily and I should go in and get the seats while Algernon waits for Thomas Deuteronomy –"

"Great Scott, is that old bugger still alive? I thought he died years ago-"

Victoria hurriedly interrupted him. "-It's getting dreadfully busy and we want good seats…"

"Yes, come along, Uncle Lolol," said Emily, taking his elbow and turning him towards the entrance. "We do want good seats…" She led the man away and Algernon let out a low growl, before turning to Victoria.

"Really, the impudence of that man-"

"I know dear, I know," replied Victoria, adjusting his coat collar.

"Who does he think he is-"

"He's harmless, darling…" Algernon glared down at his wife. 

"He's completely…" He searched for the word that would best describe his brother in-law and failed to find it. "We should never," he said finally, "have allowed him to take Christian when he did. The boy was an impressionable 19-year-old, for goodness' sake-"

"I know, dear…"

"Gave him all those god-forsaken ideas about love." Victoria frowned at this and started to protest but Algernon cut her off, lost in his reverie about her brother. "Two years they were gone! He was perfectly sensible when he left and look what your brother did to him!" Algernon brandished a hand to indicate the area they were standing in.

Victoria took a deep breath and forced herself to smile lightly at her husband.

"Don't worry, you don't have to talk to Lolol again tonight… You know what he's like. He'll see someone else he knows in there and go to see them…"

"I certainly hope so," huffed Algernon. 

Victoria sighed and kissed him on the cheek. "Tickets, darling?" Algernon reached into his inside pocket and handed her three tickets. "I'll see you inside." She turned and hurried towards her daughter and brother, meandering their way to the entrance.

Algernon sighed. He looked down at the tickets he had left and thought of his son, the Voice of the Children of the Revolution.

"Well," he muttered to himself, "there's no doubt as to which side of the family he gets from…"

* * * *

The Bohemians were all still gathered around Christian, trying to persuade him that the play was marvellous ten minutes before it was due to start. They were getting rather tired of repeating the same things over and over again, and yet Christian appeared to be hearing none of it and became more fretful with every passing minute

"But what if they all hate it?" asked Christian anxiously, pacing back and forth. "What if they all leave half-way through?"

"Christian, the audience will love it…"

"But what if they don't? Oh, what were you thinking, letting me write this thing? I've only ever written poetry before…"

"We're the Children of the Revolution!" announced the Argentinean dramatically.

"Well, yes, I know that-" began Christian exasperatedly.

"-We can't be fooled!"

"You truly have talent, Christian," said Satie quietly, looking very odd indeed without his hat and scarf. "You made up the entire plot on the spot in front of the Duke-"

"Under a great deal of pressure," interrupted Toulouse.

"-Yes, and the Duke loved it. Doesn't that tell you anything?" Satie patted Christian's shoulder reassuringly. 

"No," Christian replied dejectedly, "he said that 'generally, he liked it'. And what on earth does that mean? 'Generally, I like it…' " Christian trailed off, muttering abstractly to himself. His friends looked at each other, wanting to restore the writer's confidence. 

"Look," said Toulouse finally, "why don't you… why don't you…" He cast around for something to comfort his friend.

"Go see Satine?" prompted The Doctor.

"Yes!" shouted the other bohemians.

"Satine?" asked Christian bewilderedly, as the four men grabbed him. 

"Yes!" cried Toulouse, "go wish her luck."

"Get her to tell you how wonderful the play is-"

"-and what a wonderful writer you are."

"But what about-" began Christian.

"The Duke's out the front! Go on, Christian. Find your love!" cried the Argentinean loudly, causing the other performers on the stairs to glance at them and snigger loudly. The Bohemians pushed Christian towards the door that lead below the stage, where Satine would most likely be getting ready for her big entrance. Satie wrenched the door open and The Doctor and the Argentinean practically pushed Christian down the stairs. They shut the door with a slam and looked at each other.

"Have you ever," said Satie slowly, "known anyone to make such a fuss?"

The Argentinean shook his head. "These writers… they have such complexes!" He waved his hands dramatically in the air and stalked off, followed by the others, scurrying to keep up with his large strides.

* * * * 

"Five minutes till show time!"

Satine took a deep breath as the stage manager's voice drifted down towards her. Show time. It was now or never. Her big break. She shivered slightly in the darkness. The pit underneath the stage was dark and slightly damp. Apart from the three stagehands that would work the mechanism to take her up to the stage, she was totally alone. Upstairs, everyone would be rushing about, wishing each other good luck, talking and working themselves up for the energy that 'Spectacular Spectacular' required. And here she was, solitary and silent. She sighed to herself. It was always like this – The Sparkling Diamond was not a role that demanded many friends.

"Are you ready, mademoiselle?" asked one of the stagehands.

"Oh!" said Satine, shaking herself slightly. "Yes, of course…" She allowed the man to help her to climb up onto the elaborate platform, when she heard the sound of someone clattering down the stairs at high speed and another of the stagehands cried out, "Oi! What are you doing down here?"

"I came to wish you all luck," replied a familiar voice. Satine whipped around so quickly that she nearly lost her balance, and the man beside her caught her elbow. Standing in the half-light was Christian. She could barely make out his face but she knew, from the shape of his body to the way he stood that it could only be him. She smiled broadly in the darkness and climbed back down to the ground. Christian hurried to her side and held out his hand to her. She took it, and he pulled her lightly off the platform.

"Oh Lord," muttered one of the stagehands. The others laughed.

"What?" asked Christian, furrowing his eyebrows.

"Go on then," smiled the tallest man, "give her a kiss."

"Wha-what do you mean?" asked Satine in shock.

"Oh come on, lads," said the one who had helped Satine up. "The lovers want their privacy." Shaking their heads, all three turned their backs on the couple and started talking very loudly amongst themselves. Satine opened her mouth to protest but then reflected that there probably wasn't much point. Christian laughed softly.

"We're not very good secret-keepers, are we, darling?" he asked rhetorically, shaking his head.

"No," agreed Satine, putting her arms around his neck. "We're not." 

He smiled and kissed her gently, wrapping his arms tightly around her waist. She smiled against his mouth, knowing that she should be worried that they were such terrible secret-keepers. But somehow, with Christian around, nothing seemed half as important as he did… Nothing worried her when he kissed her. They were untouchable in their love. 

"Good luck, darling," he whispered, pulling away just enough to see her face. "Not that you need it," he added quickly. "Because you're a great actress. In fact, luck doesn't really come into it, your talent will see you through-"

"Christian, be quiet," said Satine gently. 

He nodded. "Yes, that would probably be a good idea…" 

She took his hands in her own and then frowned. "You're shaking… are you nervous?"

"Of course I'm nervous," said Christian, his eyes suddenly wide and earnest. "I've never done anything like this before-"

"I seem to remember you saying that to me that first night in the Elephant," interrupted Satine smoothly, "and you had absolutely nothing to worry about then. And you don't tonight either." The stagehands behind them snorted, and Christian opened his mouth and then shut it again very quickly. Satine could have sworn that he was blushing 

"Thank you," he said, fighting back a smile, glancing at the shaking shoulders of the stagehands.

"You're very talented, Christian. The play is wonderful and so are you. It'll all be fine."

"You know," said Christian thoughtfully, "that's exactly what Toulouse and the others said that you would say."

"Then it must be true," said Satine solemnly. Christian smiled widely at her and caressed her face with one hand.

"How wonderful life is," he whispered, and Satine smiled, reaching up and touching his hand with her own, "now you're in-"

"Five minutes, everyone!" shouted the stage manager. 

The stagehands turned back around.

"Mademoiselle, we should get you ready now…"

"Yes, yes," said Satine, reluctant to tear herself away from Christian. He pressed his lips against hers hurriedly and smiled. "You'll be superb, darling."

"So will you," she replied. He helped her up onto the platform and then kissed her hurriedly on the cheek. One more lingering glance, and then he turned and ran back up the stairs. Satine sighed and unconsciously touched her cheek. The stagehands glanced at each other and shook their heads, simultaneously mocking the lovers and yet longing to feel whatever the writer and courtesan felt for each other

A life without love, if not terrible, was certainly lonely.

* * * *

"Well, it certainly is a full house," remarked Victoria conversationally, glancing round her. By the time she, Lolol and Emily had made it into the theatre, the front rows had already been taken: they'd been forced to take some seats towards the back, just past the halfway stage. Still, they had a clear view of the stage (_providing of course_, thought Emily with a sigh_, that nobody with a large hat sat in front of them_) and that was the main thing. Emily couldn't stop smiling. Her earliest memories of Christian were of him sitting by her bedside, reading bedtime stories out loud to her in a solemn voice, acting out the more interesting bits and making her laugh. She'd always known that in one form or the other, this day would come. The day where she would go into a bookshop or library or even a theatre and see his name written on the cover of a book. She ran her fingers over the programme cover and grinned, remembering the first time she'd ever seen him writing anything: she'd come into Christian's room in the middle of the night during a frightening storm. It had been late and he'd been sitting at a desk, furiously scribbling away by the light of the lamp next to him… she supposed that he must have been about thirteen.

__

"What are you doing?"

Christian jumped and whirled around, clutching the paper he was writing on to him. He caught sight of the little girl in her nightgown and smiled. "What are you doing up at this time of night,?" he asked, smoothing the paper out carefully.

"I was…" she began, as a flash of lightning illuminated the room. With a squeal, Emily dove at Christian and scrambled up onto his lap, hiding her face in his shirt. She felt rather than heard his laugh.

"Oh, scamp, scared of a little storm?" he teased. "I saw you yesterday, brave as anything, trying to climb the Pearsons' tree-"

"Their cat was stuck up it!" interjected Emily earnestly. "I had to rescue it…"

"Of course you did," he smiled. "And it was very brave."

"Daddy didn't think so."

"He was just scared that you'd fall and hurt yourself… He wasn't really cross with you…"

"Yes, he was."

Christian sighed and patted her head. She snuffled a little bit and then turned to look at what he'd been doing. "What's that?" she asked reaching for the piece of paper. Christian snatched it out of her outstretched fingertips hastily and stuffed it away in a drawer.

"It's nothing."

"What were you writing?"

"Nothing," he said a little snappily. Emily blinked, pouting slightly and Christian sighed absently, resting his head on top of hers. "Nothing of consequence anyway…" he murmured, more to himself than his little sister. There was a silence broken only by sound of rain hitting the window, softer than it had been a few minutes ago; the storm was losing its power.

"Hmm," said Emily, attempting the same tone her father used when talking to his children. She'd overheard her mother commenting to a neighbour that Christian had been in "a bit of a funny mood the last week or so". He was certainly a lot quieter, although he was still willing to join in with Emily's little games (although, to her disappointment, he still refused to play "Tea Party" with her dolls. Still, maybe one day he could be persuaded…). He was the same old funny Chrissie he'd always been… If a little more moody and thoughtful than usual.

"Christian?" she asked timidly.

"Emily?"

"Are you sad?" 

He looked at her in surprise. "Whatever makes you think that I'm sad?"

"You're… 'in a bit of a funny mood'"

Christian nodded slowly. "I'm not sad, Em. I'm just… considering future career options."

"Future career…?"

"Hmm," he said, looking at the drawer he'd shoved the piece of paper in to. "I don't know if I'm… cut out to be what I want to be." Emily considered this for a moment.

"Why do you want to do something you're not cut out for?" she asked finally. Christian snorted.

"That's a good point, Em… A very good point…" He shook himself slightly and looked at his sister closely. "Are you sad?" he asked and Emily shook her head. "Not even scared of the storm?"

Emily looked scandalised. "I'm not scared of anything," she proclaimed. "I rescue cats. A little old storm can't scare me!"

Christian laughed and hoisted her off his lap and onto the floor. "Well then, I think it's time that all brave little scamps were in bed… Off you go. Don't wake up Joan."

"Or mummy and daddy."

"Or mummy and daddy," agreed Christian. Emily nodded and then flung her arms around his shoulders clumsily. He hugged her back and kissed her noisily on the cheek. "Night night, Em," he whispered.

"Night night, Chrissie," she whispered back and turning she tiptoed out of the room and down the corridor to her own.

After that, it seemed as though every time he'd had a moment to himself, he'd been busy writing. And Emily had known, just as surely as the sun would rise in the morning, that he would some day write something that other people would read or hear. And they would fall in love with the story and, by default, him.

"Tom!" boomed her uncle from next to her, jolting her out of her thoughts. She twisted around and saw a rather large man with a huge black beard engulfing his features walking towards them, smiling broadly. The man's face tugged on a memory; Emily was sure that she'd seen him before, but where from, she couldn't think… She, Victoria and Lolol moved out to the aisle to greet the man.

"Lolol!" he cried, reaching out to shake his hand. "It's been far, far too long… Victoria.." He turned and smiled at Victoria. She smiled graciously in return as he kissed her hand.

"Thomas, how lovely to see you again." _Of course_, thought Emily. _Thomas Deuteronomy. I haven't seen him in years…_ Deuteronomy turned to Emily and looked at her blankly for a moment, before starting a little.

"Goodness gracious! It positively _can't_ be little Emily! When I last saw you, you were this high," he held his hand up to his waist, "and now look at you… Quite the young lady! I knew that you'd 'come out', but-"

"Oh, be quiet you old fool," said Lolol fondly. "Stop embarrassing yourself in front of the ladies." Deuteronomy started to protest, but Lolol had grabbed a hold of his shoulder and pulled "him"? a little away from the two women. They started talking in loud voices. Emily started to smile but quickly bit it back as she saw her father stalk towards them, looking very ill tempered. He pushed a little rudely past Lolol and Deuteronomy (who didn't seem to notice, too busy with catching up with each other's news) and sat down heavily in a chair, about halfway down the row. Emily and Victoria exchanged a look and a sigh before sitting next to him, Victoria patting his arm and trying to calm him. Emily went back to staring at the programme.

A few minutes later, Deuteronomy and Lolol took their seats and soon after that, Emily heard a distant bell. She'd been to the theatre enough to recognise a three-minute bell when she heard it. She wondered what kind of chaos there must surely be back stage and, even more importantly, what her brother must be doing…

* * * *

Christian was headed for the right hand wing of the stage, knowing that a chair would be positioned there for him, when he heard the bell. He called out "good luck" to the people he passed and briefly saw Toulouse, before the little man was dragged away by the Argentinean, eager to get into position.

"The greatest thing you'll ever learn, is just to love and be loved in return," shrieked Toulouse as he was pulled away.

"That's it!" shouted back Christian, as he edged onto the stage, crowded with performers dressed in some of the wildest costumes he had ever seen. He peeped around the side of the curtain at the audience. He blinked. 

A full house. "Deep breath, Christian," he murmured to himself.

He pulled back and sat down on the chair and without fully realising he was doing it, he wrapped his grandfather's old grey scarf around his fingers and rested his chin on them. He wished that his grandfather were still alive to see this play… The old man had been the first person Christian had ever told about his desire to be a writer. 

A stagehand slipped from the darkness behind Christian to the curtain rope. Christian smiled at him and the stagehand smiled back briefly before fixing his gaze on the opposite side of the stage. The stage manager held up his hand. There was a very heavy pause. Christian glanced at the performers frozen in their positions. He thought of Satine, underneath his feet, preparing to make her own entrance. He smiled, thinking of the way she fit so easily into his arms, and how natural it felt to be with her, as though he were never quite himself without her by his side. Just the thought of her relaxed his racing heart: she was an oasis of calm. Christian felt his smile grow larger. His love and his play… The culmination of everything he'd worked on and loved throughout his time in Paris.

He was jolted from his thoughts by the sound of Harold Zidler's voice.

"She is mine!"

The stage manager dropped his hand and the curtain was drawn back by the stagehands. Satie's musicians started playing the heavy beats of the first number, and the performers sprang to life, like a bright, well-oiled machine. Christian heard the delighted gasps and cries from the audience and sighed, relieved.

__

It's going to be all right… he thought. _It _will_ be spectacular…_

And it truly seemed to be. The performers knew every line, every step they had rehearsed. The audience laughed and gasped in exactly the right places. They clapped and cheered, booing when the Maharajah tried to split the lovers asunder, sighing when the Penniless Sitar Player wrote their secret song. 

Christian would have adored their responses, if only he had known of them.

For as well as everything went on stage, backstage was complete chaos. One of the dancers, one with quite a large part halfway through the play, hurt her ankle in the opening number and a replacement had to be found. Consequentially, Christian spent his time scurrying around, transferring parts, until everybody was so confused that they all went to find the stage manager to complain, crowding around him and pressing him into a corner.

"Who am I supposed to be now?" cried one dancer despairingly.

"This is ridiculous," said Nini, "we were all fine. Just cut that bit out!" There were choruses of agreement and the stage manager tried in vain to calm everyone down. Christian shouted over the tumultuous noise, but nobody seemed to hear him.

"This," he said to nobody in particular, "is silly." He picked up the nearest chair and stood on it, turning to face the crowd.

"Excuse me?" he started. Everyone ignored him. "Excuse me!" Still nobody noticed his cries. Christian took a deep breath.

"Quiet!" he shouted, more loudly than he had meant to. The cast turned to him in astonishment.

"Thank you," he said exasperatedly. "Now, if you're all quiet, we can sort this out. Madeline," he turned to the injured dancer. "Can you walk?" She nodded. "Right, go on and say your lines."

"But I'm supposed to pick her up-" began a male dancer.

"Pick up Nini. China, Araby, you can make do without her, can't you? Good," he said before the dancers could reply, fed up of months of having arguments with them all. He was surprised at the confidence in his voice, but glad that it was there nonetheless. "Dance around Mome Fromage or something…. The rest of you will just have to improvise, I'm afraid. Any other problems?" A chorus of voices clamoured to be heard. "One at a time, one at a time," he cried, waving his hands about. "Um… You," he said pointing at a turbaned man in front of him

"What about the next scene?" the man in question said, "Nini won't have time for her costume change."

"Who's not on in that scene? You?" Christian pointed at a woman with brown hair in front of him. She nodded. "Right. You can have Nini's costume ready and help her on with it. You should be able to do it quickly. You," he pointed to another performer. "What's your problem?"

"Mome Fromage ate my sandwich-" 

"What does that have to do with anything?" interrupted Christian bewilderedly.

"I didn't eat it!" shouted Mome Fromage, setting off the others. Chaos may very well have ruled, had Toulouse not started banging the flat edge of a scimitar very loudly against a metal rail.

"Thank you," said Christian. "Look, does the sandwich really matter?"

"I'm hungry-"

"Oh, I'll get you another sandwich!" cried Christian, resisting the sudden urge he had to pull out his hair. "Anyone else? Urgent problems that need addressing right now?" A dancer in the front row lifted her hand timidly.

"I've-I've forgotten my line…"

"Who are you?" asked Christian, biting his lip.

"Third dancer from the right-"

"'They went that way'. Anything else?" he asked looking across the crowd. Some people shook their heads and the rest hurried away. Heaving a sigh of relief, Christian stepped off his chair and moved it back to its original position.

"That was wonderful, Christian!" beamed Toulouse, rushing up to him. "We never knew you had it in you!"

"Neither did I," replied Christian 

"The way you just seized authority – you were completely in control – very admirable."

"I wouldn't say that-" began Christian, before stopping short, his hand clapping over his mouth. "Oh no."

"What?"

"I've done the one thing I promised myself I would never ever do," said Christian in a muffled voice, looking quite horrified.

"What?" asked Toulouse, frowning. 

Christian looked down at his friend. "I've turned into my father."

* * * * *

As the curtain fell and the house lights rose for the interval, Lolol turned to his youngest niece. "Well," he began smiling broadly. "That was…"

"Spectaular spectacular!" laughed Emily, and Lolol let out a great guffaw.

"What a title…" He turned to Algernon. "What did you think of it, Algernon?"

Algernon hesitated, looking down at the programme in his hands. The wide smile on Lolol's face cracked slightly.

"Surely," he said with a cold bite to his voice, "you feel some glimmer of pride for your son's achievements now." Algernon looked at him darkly.

"Of course I'm proud of him," he snapped. "What I'm _not_ proud of is the life he has chosen to live …" Lolol opened his mouth to reply, but Victoria hastily cut him off, leaning forward to speak to Deuteronomy.

"How are you enjoying it, Thomas?"

"Pardon? Oh, erm," said Deuteronomy, looking nervously from Algernon to Lolol. "Yes, it's very…good." There was a very pregnant pause.

"Shall we get some drinks?" asked Emily a little desperately.

"Excellent idea," cried Lolol, leaping to his feet. "Tom and I will get them…" He yanked up Deuteronomy by his lapels and dragged him off before he could protest. Algernon let out a heavy breath.

"Please, dear," said Victoria gently. "Don't argue with Lolol-"

"The man is completely impossible!" he blurted out, folding his arms crossly. Victoria sighed.

"This is Christian's big night," she said quietly. "Don't spoil it…" Algernon's expression softened slightly and he looked up towards the stage. "Try not to let Lolol get to you…. Not tonight." Algernon nodded brusquely. "Just try to enjoy yourself. Don't spoil this…" She paused, suddenly hesitant, unsure if she had gone too far. Algernon nodded again, looking from the stage to the programme in his hands.

"Very well…" He smiled at his wife and daughter, as they breathed sighs of relief. "I'll try to get on with that brother of yours-"

"Thank you, dear."

"- for Christian," continued Algernon and his chest seemed to swell slightly. He sat, looking almost proudly at the stage, even when Lolol and Deuteronomy slunk back into their seats and the curtain rose for the Second Act. "The writer of the family," he whispered: he rather liked the sound of that.

* * * * 

Christian was looking for Satine. Had he been a more cynical person, then he possibly would have noticed that that was all he ever seemed to do: look for Satine. No matter where he was, or what he was doing, his eyes and ears would inevitably be pricked for a sight of her red hair or the lilt of her voice. He was a man obsessed and had he really considered this, it might well have worried him. Luckily, he was not a cynical person and didn't even consider why he was constantly looking for her. He just was. 

And he'd managed to get it down to such an art that the rest of the world was dim and dark, his entire being concentrated on Satine. The stresses of the First Act (and indeed, the entire play) seemed superficial and unimportant. Besides, everything was going much more smoothly now: his help was no longer needed. He could afford to go on a Satine Hunt backstage. _Perhaps_, he thought with a faint smile, _there might even be enough time between scenes for a stolen kiss or two…_

It was perhaps because of this thought that he didn't realise that the Argentinean had fainted on the stairs whilst heading for his entrance for the final stage, until the man in question fell on him. All he knew was that suddenly something very large and heavy was on top of him. He shoved it off and rolled away. Toulouse came rushing down the stairs, looking very concerned.

"Christian!" he called. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," began Christian, turning to look at the Unconscious Argentinean. "What hap-" He broke off, eyes widening as his brain suddenly recognised the crumpled figure in front of him. "Toulouse," he croaked, "the final scene starts soon-"

"What's happened?" asked The Doctor, hurrying towards them, a sitar slung casually across his shoulders. He stopped at the sight of the Argentinean. "Oh dear."

"- And," continued Christian, standing up slowly, "our male lead is unconscious. I thought you said that he'd taken something?" he asked, looking hopefully at Toulouse, as though the little man could wave a magic wand and all would be well.

"He did," said Toulouse. There was a short silence. "It appears not to have worked."

"I can see that!" cried Christian. "Oh my god…" He knelt down and started tapping the Argentinean's cheeks hopefully.

"That won't work," said The Doctor helpfully. "This looks like one of his deep sleeps… He won't be up and about for a few hours at least."

"_At least_?" screeched Christian. "Oh my god, what are we going to do? We can't have a final scene without the Penniless Sitar Player! I knew I should have cast an understudy, but no, I listened to all of you," he made a wild gesture with his hands, apparently taking into account the entire theatre, " saying that he'd be alright, he won't fall asleep. Oh god, oh _god_. What am I-"

"It's simple," said Toulouse briskly, rushing past Christian and starting to pull on the Argentinean's white jacket. "You'll have to take his place."

"We'll have to cancel the rest of the play- I'll have to _what_?" Christian asked, breaking off mid-rant, staring at Toulouse in disbelief.

"Take his place," said The Doctor, helping Toulouse to pull off the white jacket. 

"It's obvious," continued Toulouse, taking hold of Christian's wrists and thrusting them through the jacket sleeves. "You're the only one who knows all the Sitar Player's lines. And you're about the same build as him-" Toulouse was interrupted by a groups of dancers rushing past to take their own places on stage.

"But-but I can't act," stuttered Christian, as The Doctor pulled the Sitar Player's jacket over Christian's shoulders.

"Who said anything about acting?" he asked crisply, straightening the jacket collar. "I thought that this play was autobiographical. There's no acting involved, not for you or Satine!"

"But-" began Christian, before the two men herded him off. He thought furiously for another excuse.

"The audience will wonder what's going on!"

"They'll figure it out: Zidler will think of something, don't you worry."

"The cast will be confused!"

"They can improvise."

"I-uh, I can't – I'll be-um" Christian struggled helplessly for a reasonable excuse. "I get stage fright!" he shouted finally.

"Everyone does at first," said Toulouse soothingly. "But they soon get over their nerves."

"I won't!" cried Christian desperately, but his friends ignored him and carried him off, towards the stage.

* * *

Satine gasped and coughed, dimly hearing Marie's voice in the background: "Open your mouth, dearie, just a little bit more…" Something bitter and wonderfully cool eased down her throat and Satine gave one more cough, before resting her head in her hands. The coughing fit had come out of nowhere, as they always seemed to nowadays. She had no idea where Marie had found the medicine, or indeed what was in it, but as long as it worked, Satine didn't care. She shivered, feeling a tiny chill up her spine.

"Are you alright?" asked Marie, placing a gentle hand on Satine's shoulder. She looked extremely worried, but then again, why wouldn't she? The last thing this production needed was for the lead actress to be sick. It would be the last thing Christian needed… She allowed herself a small smile.

"Satine?"

"I'm fine, Marie," said Satine, looking up at the older woman and patting her hand. "I just need a moment…"

"Of course." Marie smiled, but it looked a little forced. It almost looked like she was smiling through tears… Satine frowned and was about to ask what was wrong, when Marie turned her back briskly.

"I'll just go get your head dress."

Satine watched thoughtfully as Marie bustled out of the room, and with a tiny shrug she turned back to the dresser and started to screw in her pearl earrings_. I wonder if Christian will think I look pretty_, she thought absently and then laughed at herself for thinking such a girlish thing. But it seemed that Christian had that effect on her. She'd often seen other girls giggle and almost walk on air because a man they liked smiled in their direction. She'd never thought that would happen to her: it _could not_ happen to her… and then Christian had smiled at her and the next thing she knew, she was dancing with the stars.

Satine gazed critically at her reflection for a moment: she looked flushed and beads of sweat were still dotted about on her forehead. She carefully wiped away the sweat and picked up her make up brush and began to apply her make up again. _He looked so worried about the play_, she thought. _It has to go well for him. It _will_ go-._ She gasped as a strange tightness clutched hold of her chest. She dropped the brush and put her hand on her chest, concentrating carefully on her breathing, which had suddenly become erratic. It was as if her lungs just stopped or forgot what they were supposed to do. 

__

Don't panic, just don't panic… Breathe. In. Out. In. Out….

After a few moments, the sensation passed and Satine allowed her head to droop. She shut her eyes, suddenly feeling exhausted… It had been like this all night. One moment she felt fine, the next she was coughing and choking and tasting something at the back of her throat that she could not quite put her finger on… She'd already decided to go to the doctor, as soon as she found some time. This cough was getting a little ridiculous now. For the longest time, all she'd wanted was to be an actress, and now, just the thought of going on the stage made her feel a little queasy. The hot lights and loud noise… And she had to concentrate so hard on what she was doing…

__

Maybe this is a sign that you shouldn't be on the stage, said a nasty little voice at the back of her brain. She quickly squashed that thought. She was going to be an actress, and she was going to go on that stage again. Christian needed her to… She imagined the crushed look on his face if the play was failed. She knew how hard he'd worked on it; sometimes, she'd lain in his bed for almost two hours while he sat at the typewriter. Sometimes it was because he had some new piece of inspiration and he was eager to write it down before he forgot it, his fingers flying over the keys with such a speed that it seemed he was possessed. Other times, he would sit, head in one hand, one finger taping at the keys morosely as he struggled to finish what he needed for the next day. On those occasions (and it had only happened once or twice), she'd had to drag him to bed. 

No, she would not let him down. The show must go on, no matter how terrible you felt. Satine sat up straight and then jumped as Marie opened the door with a loud _click._ Marie regarded her for a moment.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yes, Marie," said Satine, forcing a smile. "Help me, I've got to be on stage soon…" The headdress was very beautiful but it was a heavy weight on her head. She had to carry herself very carefully when wearing it, lest it weigh down her movements. Satine hated it with a passion and she'd only worn it once before. She watched silently as Marie attached it carefully to her head. Satine blinked as Marie let out an audible sniff.

"Marie?" she asked, turning to look her in the eye, instead of through the mirror. "What's wrong?" Before Maria could reply, there was a loud scuffling noise from outside the door. The two women glanced at each other as a low murmur of voices resounded, and someone cried out loudly, "I won't!". Raising her eyebrow at Marie, Satine rushed to the door and went outside, closely followed by the older woman.

* * *

It seemed to Christian that the route they were taking to the stage was the longest possible, and yet they were still moving altogether too quickly for his liking. He'd been struggling so hard now, he was beginning to get a little stitch in his side.

"Come _on_, Christian!" wheedled Toulouse, now panting slightly. "You've got to do this!"

"You can't make me," said Christian stubbornly, and then more loudly, "I won't!" He'd barely noticed that they were now just outside Satine's dressing room. Before any more could be said, the door was flung open and the woman Christian had been searching for stepped outside, followed closely by Marie.

"What on earth is going on?" asked Satine, her eyebrow raised. She blinked when she saw the scene in front of her: The Doctor clutching Christian's shoulders, forcing him forward, Toulouse holding Christian's right hand and pulling at him. Christian himself was looking a little flushed and panicky. His expression softened when he saw Satine.

"The Argentinean fainted," Toulouse informed Satine. "Christian's going to have to take his place-"

"I'd really rather not," interjected Christian.

"Why ever not?" asked Marie, furrowing her eyebrows. "You know all the lines don't you?"

"Well, most of them-"

"That's more than anybody else does," Satine pointed out. She took his arm with her own and started to lead him off. "And it is an emergency… We don't want all our hard work to go to waste for the sake of a final scene, do we?"

"Um," said Christian, feeling a little dizzy as he was swept along by what seemed to be an ever-growing crowd. He couldn't go on the stage, he just couldn't. He was a _writer_, not an actor, and writers did not appear on the stage, they stayed in the wings, or even in the audience, watching their creation take wings and fly. He started to explain this to Satine, but she just leaned over and whispered in his ear.

"You're acting every single day, darling, as am I. There's no difference." She smiled brightly at him and Christian felt the knot in his stomach dissipate into the more familiar feeling he always got whenever Satine was near. He smiled back at her a little awkwardly. They had reached the little alcove behind the stage where the Courtesan and the Sitar Player made their entrance. "Of course," added Satine, "this is in front of an awful lot of people-"

"That's it, I can't do it," said Christian, trying to break away from Satine's now iron-like grip. "I can't, Satine, I can't-"

"Shh, Christian, shh!" she cried, catching hold of his waving hands and squeezing them. "You'll be wonderful, I know it-"

"That's easy for you to say!" he blurted back, wanting nothing more than to be out of that tiny little alcove (_why_ was it so small? It was almost as if the walls were closing in on him…), and scurrying back to his safe little garret. "Satine," he whimpered, "_I can't act_. My mother tried to make me when I was ten and it was a complete _disaster_, I was awful-"

"But you won't be this time," she insisted. "You'll be fine, I'm right beside you, come what may!"

The flutter in Christian's heart was calmed slightly by those words, but before he had a chance to reply he heard Harold Zidler's voice resound throughout the theatre.

"Open the doors!"

Several things happened all at once: the doors were flung open, and he found himself staring straight into an extremely bright light. Someone behind him and Satine gave them a shove onto the stage, and he stumbled out of the alcove. The temporary blindness the light had awarded him faded to a few spots in his vision, and he found himself staring at an open-mouthed audience.

__

Oh dear, he thought numbly. The audience began to mutter to each other, looking curiously at Christian. He swallowed and looked at Zidler, who was staring at him and Satine, his eyes so wide they seemed to consume his entire face. Zidler turned back to the audience. Christian could feel his entire body shaking and was dimly aware that Satine was squeezing his hands reassuringly.

"Ha-ha-ha!" Zidler cried after an awkward silence. The audience stared at him. "I am not fooled!" he continued, edging towards them, conspiratorially. "Though he has shaved off his beard and adopts a clever disguise, my eyes do not lie! For it is he, the same Penniless Sitar Player-"

The audience let out a collective murmur of understanding and their befuddled gazes relaxed, their attention turning back to the lovers centre stage.

"-driven mad by jealousy," concluded Zidler, a little pointlessly. He turned back to Christian and Satine expectantly. Christian opened his mouth and then shut it again. He had no idea what was supposed to happen next. He couldn't even remember what _happened_ in this scene; let alone what he was supposed to _say_. He licked his lips. Satine glanced nervously at him and, taking matters into her own hands, she flung herself down the few steps onto the main stage. She looked desperately up at Christian, her expression one of sadness and grief so potent he could almost taste it. Christian's breath caught in his throat: he'd never seen Satine look so anguished, not even the night before, when they'd had their first argument. For an instance, Christian felt completely bewildered: what on earth was she doing? Why was she looking so hurt, like he had injured her? And strangely enough, he felt a deep and stinging sense of pain in his own heart, and everything was confused. Was he really a Penniless Poet or Penniless Sitar Player? Had his Courtesan betrayed him to save him? He was frozen, trapped by a fear that he could not place: he only knew that he never wanted to see that look of pain on Satine ever again, but something was stopping him from comforting her. 

Then, so quickly that he wasn't sure whether he'd imagined it or not, Satine raised her eyebrow and in that single movement, Christian felt a thousand words and actions flow through him like water and his fear was shoved to the back of his mind. As if of their own accord, Christian's right hand slipped into the jacket pocket and drew out the handful of notes that he had known would be there. Woodenly, he watched his own hand fling the notes at Satine's face. He heard a faint gasp from the audience, and the look on Satine's face was replaced by a small smile, before she ducked her head, apparently gazing uncomprehendingly at the money.

Christian took a deep breath. In his mind's eye, he saw the white pages of the script loom up, the black ink scrawling the words forever in his memory. "This woman is yours now," he said loudly, as clearly as if the script was in front of him. He looked at Zidler who, ever the professional, seemed to have barely been ruffled by this sudden change of casting. "I've paid my whore." 

Another audible gasp rippled through the theatre. Christian looked back at Satine, trying to ignore the clamouring in his head (_I'm doing it! I'm doing it!_), which threatened to upset the delicate script he was reading. The fear he had felt moments before swam before him once again and he stumbled over his lines, rushing them out of his mouth in haste. "Th-thank you for curing me of my ridiculous obsession with love!" 

Satine gave him another beseeching look, and he marvelled anew at what a great actress she was. He turned quickly, unsure and a little afraid of the panicky rhythm his heart seemed to be set on; he wasn't entirely certain whether it was nerves or the horrible fear, which thundered through his veins. However, he did know that he needed to get off that stage before his legs gave out (which seemed increasingly likely with every passing second).

As he descended the steps he was careful to avoid the curious gaze of the Duke, concentrating only on the play and what should happen next.

__

Harold's lines… "This Sitar Player doesn't love you… See, he flees the Kingdom!" (at this point an almost irresistible desire to whirl around and run back to Satine, shouting "I'll never leave you!" seized hold of Christian, but he fought it off). "And now my dear, it is time to raise your voice and make your wedding vows!" _The creak of the doors._ The audience let out appreciative noises at Chocolat's Hindu God. _And then Toulouse falls through the ceiling, shouting the most important line in the play…_

But instead there was an uncomfortable pause.

Christian's steps faltered. He suddenly remembered the trouble Toulouse had had with his lines_. Oh my god_, he thought, his feet still carrying him towards the theatre exit. _He's forgotten. Or passed out drunk back stage. Or not in the right place yet. Oh god, oh hell, oh bloody fu-_ His eyes had been roaming aimlessly over the audience, not looking for anyone in particular, when he saw them. Five people whom he knew very well indeed… Two bright-eyed women smiling cheerfully at him, two men looking proud and rather happy, and one man smiling with… pride. 

Christian stared uncomprehendingly at his family, open-mouthed. 

* * * *

Emily couldn't remember the last time she'd had as much fun going to the theatre. She'd laughed at the antics of the Sitar Player's friends and at the Maharajah's ignorance of the grand affair that was going on right underneath his nose. She'd almost cried when the lovers first sang their song to each other and now, as the Courtesan had to betray the man she loved, she had a huge lump in her throat. She'd clapped so hard that her hands hurt and, although she was rooted to her seat and desperate to see the ending, part of her wanted to leap up from her seat, so she could find her brother and embrace him for writing such a wonderful play.

She was therefore surprised, but happy, when Christian had appeared on stage, dressed in the Sitar Player's jacket. Her entire family had uttered loud gasps and Deuteronomy muttered, "But I thought he hated actually being on the stage?".

__

He does, thought Emily. _In fact, he looks petrified… _She held her breath, wondering what on earth this was all about. Somehow, the Maharajah's proclamation that the Sitar Player was disguised and driven mad with jealousy just didn't seem right to her… But she'd get the full story later out of Christian. 

She grinned and gave a small wave to her brother who was now standing in the aisle, his face moving through such a cornucopia of expressions that she had to bit back a laugh: first he looked shocked, then bewildered, pleased, and then a touch suspicious. Before she had a real chance to ponder why Christian was looking suspicious, there was a huge crash from the stage. She whipped her head back towards the stage and just caught something black and white swoop in from a high point of the stage: she recognised the little man as the Magical Sitar. He landed in an untidy heap, but quickly scrambled to his feet, shouting,

"The greatest thing you'll ever learn, is just to love and be loved in return!"

The silence in the theatre was as thick as fog. Emily watched, almost breathless, to see what would happen. Slowly, a sweet voice filtered from the stage, where the Maharajah and the Courtesan were standing.

__

Never knew I could feel like this

Emily sighed softly as the Courtesan turned around slowly. She just loved romance… 

__

Like I've never seen the sky before

It was strange, though. Emily had always thought that the Courtesan was beautiful but now, with tears shining in her eyes, a tiny smile gracing her face, she was… _glowing_.

__

Want to vanish inside your kiss Everyday I'm loving you more and more

The Courtesan was walking away from the Maharajah, who was watching helplessly. She came towards the end of the stage, looking almost ethereal in her white gown and diamonds. _When I get married_, decided Emily, _I'm going to have a dress just like that one_.

__

Listen to my heart Can you hear it sing? Come back to me, and forgive everything!

Emily realised that she was leaning forward, her hands wringing each other in her lap. The Courtesan took a gasping breath: the audience gasped with her, willing her to continue, completely enveloped in this magic. She looked up, towards the back of the theatre: Emily, who had completely forgotten about her brother, watched the actress on the stage as she allowed herself a small grin before whispering,

__

I love you

The audience sighed.

__

Until the end of time.

Emily started as a ringing tenor voice came from the aisle. She leaned forward and smiled delightedly as she saw Christian standing half turned towards the stage. His face was lit up with the same glow as the Courtesan's. 

__

Come what may

He sang it so softly it was like a caress, and for the first time Emily saw the simple beauty in those words, the gentle promise. It seemed a far more incredible thing to promise someone than just to love them. It promised for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, till death do us part. 

__

Come what may

The Courtesan on stage smiled, titled her head to one side, her eyes flashing with the unshed tears. _Christian should have played the Sitar Player from the start_, thought Emily a little dazed with all this emotion. _He's really acting the part extraordinarily well… _Christian was now walking up towards the stage and (more importantly in Emily's opinion) the Courtesan, repeating his declaration over and over. He sang it so loudly that Emily saw a few of the ladies in the audience who he passed wince slightly. She wasn't at all surprised: she knew how loudly Christian could belt out a song if he wanted to. But this was different somehow… it seemed as though every part of his being, body and soul, was forcing those words out of him. Emily couldn't help but wonder if he would have a sore throat in the morning.

Christian was now up on the stage, slipping his arms easily around the Courtesan's waist. Emily heard her father shift and cough quietly at this display of open emotion, but Emily couldn't see the problem: they were only acting after all. 

The two lovers were singing together, repeating over and over that they would love each other come what may, until their dying day, until the end of time (_presumably_, thought Emily, _whichever came first_). Emily tried to swallow past the lump in her throat, and then laughed at her own silliness; after all, it was only a play, and here she was, sobbing over it. 

__

But it's not just any play, she thought, rising with the rest of the audience to applaud the end of the song. _It's Christian's. It's his opus_. She clapped as hard as she could, repressing the urge to shout and cheer as her uncle and Deuteronomy were doing. The noise was tumultuous, but neither Christian nor the Courtesan seemed to notice, their faces close together, both grinning madly. Emily could see Christian say something to the Courtesan, who laughed and said something back: Emily wished that she could hear what had been sad, and immediately stopped clapping, wanting the play to continue.

The rest of the audience did not seem to share her anxiety and for the next few moments Emily was completely uncertain as to what was happening on stage: both the Maharajah and the little Sitar shouted something and then there was an explosion, causing the audience to shriek, but they settled back down quickly. Emily leant over to Lolol and asked him in a loud whisper what was going on.

"I think," he whispered back, "that the Maharajah's trying to stop the Sitar Player and the Courtesan – yes, see, his guards are surrounding them…"

Emily whispered her thanks and sat back in her chair, smiling delightedly at the chaos on stage: it seemed that the entire cast was trying to sing a different piece. It should have sounded awful, but somehow the choruses and words mixed beautifully. Emily could just make out the Courtesan and Christian's voices, soaring above the others. They had been standing facing the audience, arms around each other's waists; but now they were facing each other, raised up on the cast's shoulders. Emily couldn't say how she knew, but she was certain that, once again, the stage, the audience, the entire hullabaloo of noise; they were oblivious to it. They only had eyes for each other.

Before the curtain had even fallen, Emily was on her feet, all sense of decorum forgotten as she clapped, stamped her feet and hollered as loudly as she could (she carefully ignored the disapproving look from her father and the amusement on her mother's face). Lolol leant over to speak to her father.

"What do you say we go back stage to speak to the boy?"

"Oh, can we do that?" squealed Emily in excitement.

"Don't see why not – we are family after all," replied Lolol, his eyes twinkling at her. "As long as it's all right with you of course," he added respectfully, glancing at Algernon. 

Emily watched her father anxiously and smiled broadly as he nodded. She knew that Algernon would normally disapprove of such a show of enthusiasm, but she could tell by the way his hands were shaking slightly that he was as eager as any of them to see Christian again.

They edged their way out of the row of seats into the aisle, clapping as they went. Emily was practically running to get to the stage door and kept glancing over her shoulder, in case the curtain call happened. But it didn't. This struck Emily as a little odd – curtain calls didn't usually take this long, did they? – but she didn't ponder it for too long, because they were at the stage door. Algernon opened it, a trifle loudly, as if he was daring anyone to say that they shouldn't be sneaking back stage.

It was like stepping into a completely different world: not because of the ropes and hangings and abandoned sets and costumes that littered the flight of stairs in front of them. It was because of the silence. 

The door banged shut behind Deuteronomy as he entered, and it was if the screaming audience out front no longer existed. There was only this thick oppressive air and the muffled sounds coming from above them. The smile faded from Emily's face: surely the atmosphere back stage should have been buoyant, even triumphant at the success of the play? Casting a worried look back at his family, Algernon started climbing the steps.

The stillness was shattered by a desperate, cracking voice. Emily prided herself on her knowledge of the French language, but she could not decipher the words that had been cried: she only knew, with a sudden lurch to her stomach that something dreadful had happened.

Another voice came, hushed but equally desperate. This time Emily understood.

"Hold the curtain! Fetch the doctor!"

"I'm a doctor," said Algernon, who had reached the top of the stairs. Emily saw several people turn around and look at him in surprise. Algernon appeared to be almost as surprised as they looked that he had spoken.

"Who are you?" asked one man, looking highly suspicious. Algernon looked coldly at him and drew himself up almost unconsciously. "I," he said imperiously, "am the writer's father." 

All suspicion vanished from the man's face: indeed he seemed a little shocked at this announcement, but he did not have time to comment, for the Maharajah had appeared beside him, hissing, "Please! Be quick!". He turned and ran across the stage, Algernon at his heels. The rest of the family scrambled up on the stage and gaped at the scene before them.

The cast were standing at the back, apparently in their curtain call positions. Centre stage, Emily could just make out two solitary figures: a man and a woman. The man was cradling the woman in his arms, rocking her. It was he who had made the first strangled cry, that much was clear: his sobs could be heard clearly. It took a moment for Emily to recognise the woman's dress and the man's coat, and when she did, she suppressed a cry. It was Christian, clutching hold of the Courtesan as though he was drowning and she was the rock that was his saviour. In a daze, Emily ran forward, dimly hearing her mother and uncle close behind.

Algernon started when he saw Christian and stared down at his son in surprise: Christian appeared not to notice. Emily could hear his whispers now: "You'll be alright, you'll be alright."

"I'm cold," gasped the Courtesan, her hands trying to grasp at his shirt. Emily saw the stains of blood on his shoulder and the blood around the woman's lips at almost the same time. "_I'm so cold….._" Her voice was so different to the one Emily had just heard on the stage that she could scarcely believe it: the vision of a siren in white disappeared and revealed a shivering young woman, her pale face darkened by the cherry red around her mouth.

"Christian," said Algernon, finally recovering himself. Christian blinked up at his father incomprehensibly for a moment. "Christian, let me…"

Two men, one of whom Emily recognised as the original Sitar Player, ran forward and gently pulled Christian away from the woman: he allowed them to, but kept a fierce grip on her hands. A stagehand arrived at her father's elbow, handing him a bag, which Emily presumed was a medical bag. Algernon pulled out a stethoscope. "Take that thing off her," he ordered, pointing at the beautiful necklace shimmering on her chest. One of the men beside Christian quickly obeyed, and Algernon pressed the stethoscope to the woman's chest. He listened for a moment and then glanced sharply up at the Maharajah. "This sounds like-"

"Consumption," supplied the Maharajah (Emily had a vague recollection that he was in fact the owner of the Moulin Rouge: Someone Zidler), wearily. "She has consumption."

Christian's head snapped up to look at Zidler. "What?" he said quietly.

"How long have you known?" asked Algernon, rummaging in the bag and giving Christian a warning look. 

Zidler avoided Christian's wide-eyed stare. "… Almost a month now."

"_What_?" hissed Christian again. The two men beside him immediately patted him on the shoulder and tried to calm him; but to no avail. "You knew for _a month_? And you did _nothing_?!"

"That's enough, Christian!" said Algernon sharply.

Christian ignored him. "Her blood," he said evenly, his angry gaze never wavering from Zidler's miserable form, "is on your hands, Harold." 

Harold Zidler shut his eyes and turned away. Christian looked as though he would continue these accusations, but the woman stirred and whimpered out his name. He immediately turned back to her, dismissing the rest of the world.

"I'm here, darling, I'm here…I'll never leave you,Satine_. _Come what may_…_" He repeated this over and over and the words seemed to soothe her, for she stopped whimpering.

Emily stared at her brother and slowly began to realise what was going on here. She barely had time to think about it when another ripple of voices began to stir around the stage door.

"The Duke is coming!" 

It was if someone had uttered a magic word, for it seemed that the entire cast leapt into action: people scurried of the stage, a few beckoning Emily, Victoria, Lolol and Deuteronomy to do likewise, whilst others flocked towards the stage door; the two men who had tried to comfort Christian now tried to drag him off. He refused to budge, but, undeterred, they seized him under the arms and physically lifted him away from Satine. Christian let out a strangled noise and fought tooth and nails to get back to her. Emily saw the shadow of someone walking up the same steps she had ascended. She looked at Lolol and blinked at the look on his face. He was staring at Christian, his lips pursed tightly together. He seemed to be working something out in his own head. Emily followed his gaze to Christian, who was still struggling. Finally, the original Sitar Player seemed to lose his patience, and he slapped Christian lightly across the face.

Across the other side of the stage, there was murmur of angry voices: the performers were trying to prevent the Duke from entering the stage. Emily glanced at them and then back at her brother. The original Sitar Player was saying something to Christian, clutching the latter's chin in his right hand.

"Stop this," he whispered urgently. "You must hide it from him, Christian…You must! For her…He will destroy you both!"

A look of understanding flashed across Lolol's face, and he nodded slightly. 

"Uncle," began Emily in a hushed whisper, "what does he-" 

"Mademoiselle!" A man that Emily presumed to be the Duke broke free of the people trying to constrain him, rushed across the stage and stood before Algernon and Satine. "What is wrong with her?" he demanded in a shrill voice, which immediately set Emily's teeth on edge. She had never met a Duke before, but had always imagined them to be suave and sophisticated creatures: this Duke however, looked like a cross between a weasel and a pig. "Zidler?" Harold Zidler did not respond, his head still bowed and eyes still shut.

"Mademoiselle is ill," said Algernon, barely giving the Duke a glance. "Call a carriage," he added over the shoulder to the anxious cast. As a stagehand scurried off to procure the carriage, the Duke took a step closer, flushing horridly.

"Mademoiselle Satine is ill? What is wrong with her?" 

"She has consumption. Stretcher please!"

"Consumption?" repeated the Duke, his piggy little eyes wide. He looked accusingly at the other people around him, who avoided his eyes. Christian let out a tiny moan, and the Duke's head whipped around towards him.

"Of course," he murmured after a moment, his eyes narrow and suspicious. "Our little writer… Been looking a bit peaky recently…" He said the last part loudly and Christian flinched slightly, although Emily was certain that he couldn't have the disease… Could he? 

The Duke was prevented from making any more allegations by the stagehand returning, announcing that a carriage was ready and waiting. A stretcher had been brought, and Satine was placed upon it: she appeared to have finally passed out. The Duke hovered over her, but, Emily noticed, at what he considered to be a safe distance. As she was carried out Christian made another attempt to break free, but the two men holding him back had been joined by two others (one of whom was the tiny little man who played the Sitar), and they clung on to him tightly.

Finally, as the stretcher and its occupant passed out of the outer door to the carriage, a terrific burst of strength seemed to take hold of Christian, and he ripped himself free from their hands. He raced towards the exit, but Lolol intercepted him, grasping Christian's wrist tightly.

"Lolol, let me go," he said desperately. "I've got to-"

"You've got to stay away from her, Christian," said Lolol in a firm voice, his eyes full of pity.

"You. Don't. Understand," hissed Christian through gritted teeth, struggling to pull himself free from his uncle's iron-like grip. "I have to go to her-"

"You will endanger her life, Christian! You must let her be!"

"No–"

"You're thinking with your heart!" cried Lolol. "You need to think with your head now!"

"And who told me to follow my heart?" exclaimed Christian. He pulled himself free of Lolol's grasp and stared at him, quivering with anger. "You did! You always taught me that!"

"Christian." Christian stiffened and turned at the sound of his mother's voice. She was pale and even looked a little shaky; her eyes, however, looked resolutely and almost strictly at her son. "What is going on here?" Christian blinked and took a step backwards, as though he could somehow distance himself from what was happening around him and his own clamouring emotions.

"I don't know anymore," he said in a hoarse whisper, suddenly looking like a lost little boy. He put his head in his hands and whispered it again: "I just don't know…"

Lolol made a sympathetic cluck at the back of his throat and, stepping forward, he embraced his nephew. Christian did not remove his hands from his face. Emily and Victoria looked at each other in despair and wonder, still unsure as to what was happening. One moment they had been happy and everything seemed so full of joy and excitement at the prospect of seeing their prodigal son again. And now, instead of finding welcoming arms, there was only a man crying out in the darkness, holding a dying woman.

Nearby, Deuteronomy took off his hat and watched Lolol lead Christian and the other Evans out to another carriage. He did not know what he was showing respect for, nor what Christian appeared to be mourning for. But it seemed the only appropriate thing to do.

* * * * * * 


	4. My All

Chapter Three: My All 

**Disclamer****: Moulin Rouge is Bazzie's. "My All" is Mariah Carey's. Yep, that's about all... :P**

**Author's Note: Yes, I know it took me a long time to get this out… *ducks rotten vegetables* But life just totally got in the way. And I had many drafts for this chapter… *sighs* Anyway, enjoy. J**

* * *

Snow had begun to fall again outside, tiny snowflakes clinging to the carriage window. It almost seemed that they begged to be let into the carriage, into the hot, oppressive air that had built since they'd all climbed in; Christian sitting between his sister and uncle, his parents facing him. He was keeping a tight hold on Emily's hand and gave her a brief smile as the carriage started. After that, he'd started explaining just what had happened in Paris that made him behave so oddly backstage. There were holes in his narrative, Emily noticed: He didn't elaborate on how he and the courtesan had first met, only saying that it had been through "mutual friends".

"… And, well, the actor playing the Sitar Player, he has narcolepsy, he fell asleep just before the last scene. I was the only one who knew his lines and actions, so I had to go on…" He smiled again, his eyes empty. "And you know the rest." His voice trailed off as he gazed around at his family's expressions, all of them somewhat surprised and touched by his story. Algernon, however, seemed to bristling with some contained emotion.

"Well," he said shortly. "Congratulations, Christian. You got what you wanted. You fell in _love." The tone of his voice when he said __love made Emily cringe: there was a barely checked contempt laced in that tone, like poison. Christian stared at his father, his eyes wide and as glistening as the drops of melted snow that began to slide down the windows._

"I did not ask for this," he said. "I did not imagine it would-"

"That's precisely the problem!" snapped Algernon, his voice rising. "You did not think! You never do!"

"Algernon," said Victoria admonishingly.

"Do not hush me, Victoria! I am not a child-"

"Neither am I," said Christian quietly. "You have no right to interfere in my affairs like this."

"I am your father. I have every right in the world! Especially when you do something as stupid as-"

"As what? Fall in love? I cannot help the way I feel!" Christian was slowly leaning forward, his voice rising to match Algernon's. 

"Yes, you can! For god's sake, boy…" Algernon trailed off, apparently in despair.

"I am sorry if I have displeased you, father," said Christian after a pause. "But I love Satine."

"You have been seduced by her," said Algernon. Christian started to reply, but Algernon cut him off, leaning forward in his seat. "Tell me, how did you meet her? Through your friends? What friends are these – brothel keepers, whores, alcoholics – freaks!"

"No!" cried Christian. "They are good people, if only you would look past your prejudices and see that-"

"I do not care about the gutter friends you have made!"

Emily felt quite breathless. She had heard Christian and her father argue many times before, their raised voices trembling throughout the house, leaving plenty of gossip for the housekeeper and gardener to dissect. She had never witnessed it before, and it was obvious from the uncomfortable expressions on Lolol and Victoria's faces that they hadn't either.

"They are not from the gutter," said Christian, oblivious to the carriage's other occupants.

"I am not concerned with them, wherever they are from!" Algernon stopped suddenly, as though a thought had just occurred to him. "This woman… this whore…" Emily saw Christian's hands curl into fists at the mention of that dreaded word. "You have… spent the night with her?" There was a faint note of desperation in Algernon's voice, a plea that what he suspected was not true.

Christian looked at his father for a moment, biting his lip. "What I do in my bedroom is my own business," he said finally. Algernon buried his face in his hands; even Victoria was looking reproachful. There was an exceedingly uncomfortable pause, where everyone avoided each other's eyes.

"Maybe," murmured Algernon finally, removing his hands from his face, "it is not too late. I don't know what… debauchery you have lived here, Christian, but perhaps if you confess now…" He leaned forward earnestly. "Perhaps we can wipe the slate clean… Take you back to England. Forget about this nightmare."

Christian stared at him in disbelieve. "I-I don't believe I'm hearing this," he said finally. "You're telling me to forget the woman I love?" Algernon rolled his eyes, but Christian pressed on, his voice becoming louder and shakier with each word that passed his lips. "You're telling me to forget about her, when she is lying in hospital _dying?"_

"Christian," began Lolol, "your father doesn't mean that-"

"Yes, I do," interrupted Algernon.

"I won't," snapped Christian. "I can't. Don't you understand? I love her. I l-o-v-e h-e-r. I love her. And I will never leave her! No!" he cried, seeing his father's mouth open. "Not now, not ever! I will spend the rest of my life with that woman, and the next life-"

"Christian," began Lolol again.

"_I would rather spend eternity in hell with her by my side than face heaven alone!" shouted Christian, his eyes wild with anger. _

"Christian!" cried Victoria, her eyes wide with horror.

"Don't be a fool, boy," hissed Algernon. "She is a whore – she cannot love you! She is paid to make men believe that!"

Christian started and seemed temporarily struck dumb. He shook his head, as though to clear an image or memory from his mind. "I do not pay her. Love cannot be bought – it can only be given freely!"

"A woman like that knows only the value of material things."

"Stop this!" cried Christian, looking so wounded that Emily wanted just to fling her arms around his neck and comfort him. She did not dare, though, and instead only took his hand again. She was trembling from head to toe, feeling as though the echoes of the words flung about would forever resonate in her head. "Why can you not understand this?" continued Christian. "I love her. She loves me-"

"What about this Duke, then, hmm? Is she not supposed to be in love with him? How do you know that she is not simply toying with you in the same way?"

"I know her soul. She has shown me her true self, undisguised-"

"She is smoke and mirrors, Christian! A woman like _that is nothing but disguises!" _

 "Will you stop calling her that!" cried Christian, gripping Emily's hand so hard that afterwards she would find bruises like dark deadly flowers creeping across her fingers and palm. "She is a person! Her name is Satine! Her favourite colour is red. Her favourite actress is Sarah Bernhardt, her favourite play, _Salomé. She wants to be an actress and leave the Moulin Rouge forever. She wants two children, one boy, one girl. She wants a small house on the edge of town. She wants to grow old with me, to sit out and watch the stars and whisper in her dying breath that she __loves me!" Christian sat back slightly, looking grimly satisfied at the expression on his father's face._

Emily sat, looking from one to the other. It was so strange… Christian had never looked like his father: he had always looked like his mother's son. But now, in the light of a single oil lamp and the light streaming in from outside, father and son had never looked more alike. The determined set of the mouth, the flashing eyes… For the first time, Emily saw very clearly how two men so different in their beliefs and temperament could be so alike in their anger.

Christian turned to glance out of the window. Suddenly, he sat up. "The turning," he said, "we missed the turning! The hospital is back there…"

"We're not going to the hospital," said Algernon grimly.

"What?"

"Christian, darling," began Victoria, reaching to take his free hand. "You're tired, you need some food and rest… Just come back to the hotel, have a quick rest and then you can go see her." She smiled gently at him, but Christian did not smile back. He looked as though he'd suffered the most appalling betrayal. 

"You…" he whispered, looking from his mother to his father and back again, obviously groping for words. "I have to be with her," he said finally.

 "And you will be, dear," said Victoria soothingly. "Just as soon as you've had a good rest. You've been under a great deal of strain…"

Christian carefully pulled his hand from her grip and looked around at his family, searching for an ally. His eyes rested on Emily and she looked away, shutting her eyes against his bewildered expression. _Please understand, she thought. __We just want what's best for you, that's all…_

"You still do not understand," Christian murmured at last. Emily opened her eyes and saw the hurt that still glimmered in his eyes. "I _have to be __with her."_

"Christian, we only want what's best for you – Christian, no!" shouted Algernon as Christian leant over Lolol, opened the carriage door and sprung out into the busy road. Emily screamed and scrambled over her uncle to look out the window. Their own carriage stopped sharply as the driver turned around in his seat to see what had happened. She could just make out a dark shape against the white snow, rolling and narrowly avoiding a horse and cart going in the opposite direction.

"Go on then!" howled Algernon, leaning out of the swinging door. "Go to her! Ruin yourself! I have done with you! Drive on!" he snapped to the driver, and pulled himself back inside, slamming the door on the cold night and his wayward son.

"Algernon!" cried Victoria.

"The boy is a fool, Victoria! He needs to learn-"

"You were too harsh," said Lolol, his mouth set in a narrow line.

Emily tuned out the adult's conversation and looked out the window. She thought she could just make out a figure scrambling to its feet, racing around a corner and out of sight. "Good luck, brother," she whispered, shutting her eyes and resting her head against the cool glass. 

Even later, after everything was over, the clearest image Emily would have of her brother was the look of total betrayal in his eyes when he had searched for a friend amongst his own family. 

* * *

Christian barely noticed the pain that shot up his left side as he hit the ground: all he noticed was the sudden surreal view of hooves bearing down on him. He cried out and dived out the way, just feeling the brush of the horse's legs against his shirt. He heard a whinny and cries of alarm from his family and other carriage drivers; above it all he heard his father's voice. _Well, he thought. __At least now I have his permission. Smiling grimly at this, he struggled to his feet and dodged carriages, trying to get his bearings._

As he started running again, towards the hospital, he found himself replaying what had just happened, over and over. Why couldn't they understand? He _had to be with Satine. Did they not believe that he loved her, was totally devoted to her? Even his mother – a __rest, for goodness' sake? He thought she knew him better than that… And Emily… She didn't understand. She was too young. Christian squeezed his eyes shut. Was this what it came down to? That he would have to choose between his family and his love? He couldn't do that._

_You have, he thought. __And you chose Satine. You'll always choose Satine. They have each other; she has nobody, nobody who cares for her anyway… _

He shook his head and glanced up at the moon, which lit up the snow on the ground like _(the pale, pale skin of a dying woman) ethereal lace, spun from the moon's silver orb. The lamplight cast dark shadows __(like the ones under her eyes) on the alley Christian was standing in__ (her limp body, hanging in his arms). He paused, remembering all those times when the moon had been the silent witness to their affair. __Please… take my song to her…_

"I am thinking of you," he sang, looking up at an ill-lit signpost. "In my sleepless solitude tonight. If it's wrong to love you…" He thought of his family and sighed, his breath hanging in the cold air. "Then my heart just won't let me be right, because I've drowned in you, and I won't pull through without you by my side." 

_St. Augustin's, said the sign, pointing east. Christian started running again, faster then he'd ever run before. There was a breathless freedom in it, but he had no time to relish the feeling. Satine was ill. She needed him. He didn't want to think about how ill she was, nor how desperately weak she had felt in his arms. He didn't even want to think about what a blasted idiot Harold was, not telling anybody, trying to hide it… As if it would go away. _

"I'd give my all," he sang softly, pushing such melancholy thoughts out of his head, "to have just one more night with you. I'd risk my life…" He choked suddenly, a vision of Satine's bloodstained lips floating ghostlike in front of him. "Just to feel your body next to mine. 'Cause I can't go on, living in the memory of our song…"

He trailed off, all thought of song fading from him. The hospital loomed in front of him, and it finally dawned on Christian how tired he was: his legs ached, he could feel blood pounding in his temples and his lungs felt as if they would burst. It reminded him of childish nightmares, where no matter how hard he ran, he was stuck in the same place, feeling the breath of some terrible thing chilling his skin and bone. For a few moments, Christian honestly thought that he _was in a nightmare of some kind. St Augustin's didn't seem to get any closer._

"Just as Christian began to feel that he had in fact completely lost his mind, the hospital entrance was there, right there in front of him. He barrelled in through the door, slamming full speed into the reception desk. Before even having drawn breath he asked the bewildered looking nurse behind the desk if she knew where Mademoiselle Satine was. She didn't. Nor did the wan faced doctor, the cleaner, or a whole troop of giggling nurses. 

"Excuse me!" called Christian, waving his arm to get a bored looking orderly's attention.

The man looked up slowly. "Ye-es?"

"Do you know where – I mean, a - a dancer from the Moulin Rouge was brought here: do you know where she is?"

The orderly considered this for a moment. "Red hair?"

Christian's knees went faint with relief. "Yes! Do you know-"

"Came in with a fat man? Red hair as well?"

"Yes, now could you possibly-"

"They were dressed very funnily," continued the orderly, oblivious to Christian's impatient, anxious hops. "Like… all _Eastern and Orien__tal. Was it for a play?"_

"No," snapped Christian sarcastically, irritated at the man's slowness, "that's how they normally dress. Of course it's for a play!"

"No need to get touchy, like," said orderly, looking highly affronted. "I mean, how'm I supposed to know?"

"Look, I'm sorry," said Christian, restraining the urge to grab the man's white lapels and give him a good shake. "Just… do you know where they are?"

"Oh … Just down the hall, third on the left," he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "But-"

"Thank you!" cried Christian, pelting off down the corridor, the orderly shouting after him, "Only family can visit!"

"I'm her secret lover!" tossed Christian back over his shoulder, barely aware of the absurd words he spoke. 

First turning on the left… Second… Christian wheeled around the corner, stopped, and slammed his back around the corner again. The Duke was pacing the little waiting area outside the room, his back turned to Christian, Warner sitting next to the door, scribbling something ferociously in a notebook. Christian held his breath for a few seconds. He heard Warner cough and the Duke mutter something unintelligible. Christian ran a trembling hand over his face.

Now what?

*

Satine had once heard from another can-can dancer that her worst fear was being buried alive. At the time, she had scoffed the poor girl, insisting that there were worse things. Now, she wasn't so sure. There seemed to be an impenetrable heavy darkness all around her. She tried to move her arms, her legs, even just wiggle her toes, but her muscles felt tight and painful. She tried to scream, but her lungs seemed unwilling to take a deep enough breath.

_Don't panic, Satine, she thought, __everything's fine, you're not dead… Focus. _

Concentrating all her effort, she forced one eyelid upon, and then the other.

"Mademoiselle?" 

Satine blinked, her eyes slowly adjusting to the light. She turned her head towards the man who had spoken, a rather young looking doctor. He had, rather unsuccessfully, tried to cover up his weak chin with a thin beard. He looked so childish that Satine suddenly felt very old and tired. She'd seen and done too much, and it had exhausted her. For a moment, she wished that she could go back, back to a time before Zidler, before the Moulin Rouge, and do things differently. _I wouldn't have met Christian without the Moulin, though, she thought, smiling faintly at the irony of it all: if it hadn't been for that brothel, the one place where she couldn't afford to love, she never would have loved. She was interrupted from her thoughts… etc". Huh. That turned out longer then expected. :P I like it, though. J That was what was so wonderful about Christian: yes, he was young, but he'd spent the majority of his life in dreams… about as much time as she had tried to deny the same things. _

She was interrupted from her thoughts by a sharp prick in her right arm. The young doctor smiled apologetically at her as he pushed the needle into her skin. She tried to ask him what he was doing, but her throat was red raw: it came out as a croak. He seemed to understand what she meant to ask, though, because he smiled again.

"Just a little injection, mademoiselle… Nothing to worry about." Satine hadn't been particularly worried until he'd said that. She had a sudden terrible idea of what had happened and what was wrong with her; but before she could question him further, he withdrew the needle, patted her shoulder awkwardly and disappeared into the shadows the oil lamp cast over the walls. The door banged shut on his way out.

Satine blinked and tried to look around the room. Any movement of her head made her feel dizzy, though, so she settled for a quick rove with her eyes. She recognised a painting of a church on the wall. She realised that she must be in St Augustin's: that damn church was in every single room. She'd never been a patient herself, but she'd been here many times with other girls, girls who feared they might be pregnant, or not pregnant, or sick, or… This room was much nicer than the other rooms they had been in, though, as evidenced by the oil lamp instead of a stubby candle. Strangely, the curtains hadn't been drawn: the young doctor must have forgotten in his haste to get out. She focused past the superimposed image of the room and looked at the stars breaking through the clouds. The moon hung just behind a wispy looking cloud, and Satine found herself remembering other times when she'd gazed from a bed at the night sky. She sighed.

She'd always claimed that she had few fears, that nothing could touch her, and to an extent it was true. The one wonderful thing about being truly alone was that no one could take anything away from you. And yet the last few months had revealed that there were many things she couldn't bear to have taken away… And most of them started and finished with Christian. If he came, she knew that he would bring her comfort.

_He will come. And you will kill him._

Satine nearly cried out as this unbidden thought appeared to her. Consumption was very contagious, she knew that much. That was why everyone feared its outbreak: a Black Death for the new century. What if she had already…?

_(Send him away… Hurt him to save him.)_

She needed him though. Needed him to come and sit beside her and kiss her hand, smooth the damp hair of her forehead. "He'd probably try and take her mind off the tremor in her mind, try to wipe the images of whores spitting out their lifeblood onto cold streets, and bring her comfort. But what if during all those long, slow summer nights, when all she could hear was his voice, what if during those tender moments-

_Stop it, Satine, she scolded herself. __Don't be hysterical. He's in perfect health. Why, you've barely heard him do more than clear his throat! He is fine. She gazed back out the window, her thoughts still swirling. But out of all the confusion, she knew one thing for sure: she needed him, the way a drunk needs alcohol, the way Nini needed applause, Toulouse needed to paint. He was her obsession. She needed him. She pushed all thoughts out her mind except that one.___

"Baby, can you hear me?" she whispered, staring at the lace-white moon. "Imagining I'm looking in your eyes?" She shut her eyes and smiled faintly, for an instant forgetting the ache in her body and the sharp effort it took to breathe. "I can see you clearly... vividly emblazoned in my mind."

She opened her eyes and felt all the aches and pains flood back harder than ever, cementing his absence. 

"And yet you're so far," she murmured, gazing back out the window. "Like a distant star, I'm wishing on tonight…" She scanned the sky for shooting stars but none appeared. Tonight, the heavens didn't want her to wish.

Her eyelids felt heavy again, and Satine wondered very vaguely what it was that the doctor had injected into her. She tried to fight the strong wave of darkness overcoming her. She felt like a child, needing its good night kiss before drifting off peacefully – she wasn't sure if she could sleep with no goodnight sign from Christian.

"'Cause I can't go on," she sighed, sleep prickling her skin, "living in the memory of our song…I'd give my all… For your love… Where are you, Christian?" she whispered finally, stars dancing before her as she slept.

* 

Christian had been so desperately searching for a plan that he didn't notice the doctor walking past him, nor the strange look he was given. He didn't even hear the doctor greet the Duke: all he heard was the Duke's indignant hiss.

"What do you mean, I can't see her?"

Christian jumped and pressed himself flat against the wall, trying to edge forward without being noticed from around the corner.

"I'm sorry, monsieur," said the doctor. "But Mademoiselle Satine's condition is-"

"How serious is it?" The Duke's voice was quieter, concerned now.

Pause. "Very."

Christian put his head in his hands. How could he not have noticed? She'd told him that she was sick, but he'd done nothing, assuming it wasn't serious… Assumed that she was trying to protect him from what she did with the Duke. How could he be so self-centred?

"Another doctor will see her in the morning… He is very experienced with consumption. Please, come with me." 

Christian had just enough sense to realise that the hallway was not exactly the most ideal hiding place and that there was no Satine around to distract the Duke from his presence. He dived across the hall and fell in through the door into a supply room, only partially shutting it. Through the thin crack he watched the Duke until he was around a corner and out of sight, and suddenly became aware that he was not alone in the room. Slowly, Christian turned around; a woman and a man, whom Christian recognised as the slow orderly, stared at him, looking highly affronted and only partially dressed.

There was an exceedingly uncomfortable pause. 

"Sorry," said Christian, before slipping back out the door and closing it firmly behind him, reflecting that there were certain things that he would never have seen had he stayed in London, and that _this was most certainly one of those times._

Shaking his head, he stole across the corridor and, checking that the coast was clear, he opened the door a fraction. The room was lit with the gloomy light from an oil lamp and soft moonlight falling through the window. It would have looked the perfect setting for a romantic liaison but for Satine's expression. She did not look peaceful. Her brows were furrowed as if in concentration and her nose wrinkled as Christian entered the room. Dark crescent moons ringed her eyes, and the curve of her cheekbones seemed more pronounced.  All this Christian had noticed for weeks now, but thought that it was just nerves and the strain of their secret finally showing: he knew he looked the same. And all the time it had been disease and not secrecy that made her ill. 

Gingerly, unwilling to wake her, Christian sat beside the bed. Hesitantly, he reached out a hand and gently brushed the damp curls from her cheek.

"I'm so sorry," he murmured, staring at her face. He took her hand in his and held it against his lips, shutting his eyes. He wanted nothing more than to block out this nightmarish scene. It seemed impossible that so much could happen in such a short length of time: surely something like this took weeks to come about…

_It did. You just didn't notice it. And the people who did ignored it… No one wanted to help her._

"Christian?" He jumped a little and opened his eyes to see Satine staring at him sleepily. She smiled faintly, and Christian felt his own lips curve up into a smile.

"Yes," he whispered, kissing her hand again. "I'm here."

"I knew you would come." She paused, searching his eyes for a moment. "Am I dying?"

"No!" whispered Christian, squeezing her hand tightly. "No, darling, you'll be fine, the doctors will…" He trailed off at the expression on her face.

"Don't lie to me, Christian. Please… promise me you'll never lie to me." 

Christian swallowed. "I promise," he whispered leaning in to kiss her. To his surprise, she turned her head away from him. "What's wrong?" he asked, hurt and doubt creeping into his mind.

_(I choose the maharajah.)_

"I'm… You're endangering yourself."

Christian frowned and turned her face towards him. "What do you mean?" he asked, honestly confused by her reactions. She caught hold of his hand.

"I have consumption." Her statement was almost heartbreakingly simple, wistful in a way that made Christian think that she was counting the mistakes she had made in her life, realising too late that there were too many of them. He swallowed.

"I know, darling-"

"Christian, I couldn't stand it if anything happened to you-"

"Shh," said Christian, silencing her protests by laying a finger against her lips. "If you think that you can get rid of me that easily, you're _very wrong." She smiled faintly at him. "I won't ever leave you. __Ever. I promise you that." _

Satine shut her eyes. "Christian-"

"I won't get sick, I promise." 

Satine smiled and opened her eyes. "Even you can't promise something like that." Christian laughed softly, but Satine frowned. "Maybe you should go."

Christian froze, feeling a cold stab of hurt and rejection in his heart. "I won't."

"Christian-"

"What are you saying?" cried Christian, desperation making his voice crack. "What do you want me to do? You don't want me around you? You don't want me to touch you?"

"It's not a question of wanting," she said angrily. "I have to think of you…"

"Then don't send me away. Please, Satine," he whispered, his voice shaky. "I love you. In sickness and in health."

Her eyes widened as the words left his mouth. She stared at him for a moment. "You're not going to listen to a word I say, are you?" she said finally.

"No," said Christian. "You're stuck with me." He smiled and squeezed her hand. She smiled at him genuinely.

"Come what may," she whispered after a moment.

"Exactly," said Christian, smiling in relief. "I never write anything I don't mean."

"I know." Christian almost leant in for a kiss again, but caught himself, kissing her hand instead. "Thank you," she whispered.

"You'll be fine. We'll be fine," he said, blinking back tears. Satine said nothing. "You _will be," insisted Christian. "You're strong… I promise you. I won't let anything happen to you."_

Satine shook her head, and somehow Christian knew that she hadn't meant any of it: she wanted him there. "As long as you're with me…" She coughed, turning her head away from him. "Christian," she whispered when her fit had subsided, "you're hurting my hand."

Christian blinked at her. "Sorry," he whispered, easing his tight hold of her a little. She smiled at him again slowly. "Get some rest," he said finally. "I'll stay." 

She shut her eyes almost immediately, asleep a minute later as Christian hummed a lullaby his mother had sung him a long time ago. Once he was certain that she was asleep, he leant his head against the pillow and prayed for few moments of quiet, for a place without dying courtesans and angry fathers and jealous dukes.

* 

Somebody cleared his throat. Christian frowned and tried to go back to sleep. Someone coughed. How was he supposed to get any sleep with this racket going on?

"Christian!" snapped a familiar, angry voice. Christian sat up very quickly, nearly toppling off the rickety chair. He blinked and rubbed his eyes against the bright morning sun.

"Uh… Father?" he said finally, resisting the urge to shrink back from Algernon's angry whiskered face.

"Have you been here all night?"

"Um-"

"Hmph." Algernon gave his son one last displeased look before turning to the doctor standing beside him, who appeared to be fighting back his amusement. Christian glanced at Satine, who was staring at Algernon with an almost morbid fascination. She looked at Christian and smiled, although her forehead remained crinkled in thought. He realised that he still had a grip on her hand.

"She needs to start the course right away," said Algernon, ignoring them both completely. "Once a day, every day."

"What course?" asked Christian. Algernon gave him a hard look before walking to the door, gesturing for him to follow. Christian hesitated, glancing at Satine.

"The doctor will explain it to her," said Algernon gruffly. He wrenched open the door. "Come." He marched out the door without a backward glance.

"Is he really your father?" asked Satine quietly, her wide eyes on the door.

"Yes."

She nodded. "You'd better go after him."

Kissing her hand hurriedly and giving the French doctor a brief nod, Christian followed his father out into the corridor, shutting the door quietly. Algernon stood looking at a painting on the wall, his hands clasped behind him.

"You were there all night?" he asked quietly.

Christian nodded. "I told you… I have to be with her."

Algernon sniffed and bounced on his toes a little. Christian knew from long experience that this meant that his father was trying to hide his emotions. Whatever emotion it was, he was doing remarkably well in concealing it: Christian began to feel a little nervous and very, very awake.

"Good," Algernon said unexpectedly. "Your mother was worried that you'd spent the night wandering the streets."

"No. I came straight here-"

"To be with her," finished Algernon impatiently, still staring at the painting. "I _know, Christian."_

After an awkward pause, Christian repeated his question. "What course?"

Algernon turned to him, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "You know that usually we would send her to a sanatorium, somewhere she can rest… Why that blasted doctor of Zidler's didn't send her when she first diagnosed, I shall never fathom. Idiot frog," he growled. Christian was not surprised at his father's anger: Algernon had always been very intolerant of fools. He was however struck by a sudden thought. How long had Zidler known that she was ill? He hadn't given the matter much thought up till now, too wrapped in worrying about Satine… How long had they known that she was dying and why didn't they get her any help? Christian put his hands in the Sitar Player jacket. He didn't want his father to see how they trembled.

"Yes," he said quietly. "I know."

"She will not be taken to a sanatorium. Not just yet anyway."

Christian stared at Algernon, aghast. "What? Not yet? You-you don't mean that-"

"No. There is another way."

"Another way?"

"Do stop echoing me, Christian."

"I'm sorry."

"It's very annoying." Algernon paused. "Whilst you have been… _writing and doing god knows what over here, I and some others back in London have been testing a new medication. You remember Alfred Kingston and Mr Stevens?" Christian restrained himself from asking the obvious question and nodded instead. "Well, we've been working on this for a long time now – almost two years. It's relatively simple to make. I came here early this morning and talked to the doctors... They'll have some ready by tomorrow."_

Christian stared at him, suddenly overwhelmed. "You did all that-?" His question hung unanswered in the air. "Thank you," said Christian awkwardly.

Algernon nodded slightly. "It's by no means a cure. But it will help her much more than just rest and fresh air will."

"She'll be alright," whispered Christian. He sat down heavily on a waiting chair, his legs weak with sudden relief.

"Possibly. Combined with rest and fresh air, she has a better chance of recovery. Later, if she gets stronger, she'll be taken to a sanatorium." Christian put his head in his hands, hope trembling through his veins. Algernon placed a hand on his shoulder. "I don't want you to get your hopes up. Her condition is very serious. The illness was left far too long without medical treatment-"

"But you think she'll live?" said Christian, lifting his head to look at Algernon. It was strange, but Christian realised that the only time he had looked his father squarely in the eye was now and when he had said goodbye before leaving England. A strange, weary kind of emptiness filled him, which felt oddly familiar. The same familiarity he had felt when he'd seen his family again. It was like he was greeting something that he had not seen or felt in a long time, but he knew it nonetheless. For the first time, Christian wished that things had been different between him and his proud, old-fashioned father. Algernon was silent for a long time, his dark eyes unreadable.

"I hope for your sake that she is." He made to leave, but Christian grasped hold of the hand on his shoulder fiercely.

"Thank you," he whispered. Algernon's eyes flickered and for just a moment his whole expression softened. It was only a fleeting image though: the next instant, he had stepped away from Christian, dropping his hand.

"I want you to go see the doctor… Get yourself checked."

"I'm fine."

"You can't be sure about that. Confirm it with a doctor. If he's busy…" Algernon hesitated. "Come and find me." 

Christian nodded. "All right then."

"I still do not approve of your conduct during your time here. We have much to discuss later."

"I've said everything I can," said Christian. 

"You do not repent of the… the disgrace you have brought upon yourself, and your family?" 

Christian said nothing. Algernon stood very still.

"Then we have nothing more to say to each other." With that, he turned and marched off. Christian stared down the corridor long after his father had gone from his view.

* * *

Now before, you all start sending me reviews saying "but there _was no medicine for TB in 1900!" I __know that. I've done quite a lot of research with my beta reader for this fic, so just trust me. If there was no medicine for TB in this alternate universe (please note the word __alternate. :P), then this fic would be about five chapters long. As it is, with a cure (of sorts), it's looking on about 10 chapters and three epilogues. :P _

Besides, let's face it, MR isn't exactly the most historically accurate film ever made, is it? ;)

Roll Call! Thanks to all my reviewers so far – hugs and kisses to anonymous, Sarah (when is more "A Thousand Words" coming? I'm dying for more!), Divamercury, drama-princess (and when is more "All I Once Possessed" coming? ;) ), MR Rocks, lightning bug (see? It didn't take so long to get this chapter out… ;P), lauryn, wellduh, SummerRose and last, but not least, SatineJames. All you guys really made my day. Thank you! :D


	5. God Help The Outcasts

_Chapter Five: God Help The Outcasts_

**Disclaimer**: Come on, you all know it's not mine… Don't even pretend that you're going to sue me.

**A/N Part Una: **Dedicated to tambourines everywhere.

~*~

The square outside of Notre Dame teemed with people, scurrying this way and that underneath the cathedral gargoyles' baleful stare. The bells rang across the Seine, clear and deep, reminding the people of Paris that mass had started, or was in session, or had ended, or maybe just to remind that God was in the midst of their city. Men, women and children walked briskly in and out of the portals, heads bowed and breath hushed before the sacred space of Notre Dame.

A solitary figure stood at the bottom of the steps, staring up at the vast structure. It was ironic, really, that a man whose name meant "believer in Christ" should be so reluctant to enter the church. But somehow, Christian didn't feel right in doing so. The stone statues of the Gallery of the Kings glared down angrily at him, and he turned his eyes away. He'd never been particularly religious: God was an abstract being, a harsh and benevolent figure all wrapped up in sin and penance. A contradiction wrapped in enigma. He'd never felt the presence of the Holy Spirit. His mother had described God as pure bliss: the only time Christian had ever felt bliss was with Satine. And according to his father, his society and his church, that was wrong. How could being with the woman he loved, the one Christian the one Christian assumed he would marry someday, be a sin? How could being in love be wrong?

_My son, keep your father's commands, and don't forget your mother's teaching. _

Algernon's words resounded in Christian's head, and he saw his father, standing in his study, reading aloud from the family Bible… Trying to convince him that his soul was in great peril if he went to Montmartre…

_God is love_, thought Christian bitterly, _and yet it is a sin to love a prostitute._

_A prostitute will treat you like a loaf of bread…You cannot carry hot coals against your chest without burning your clothes. _

Christian shut his eyes and rubbed his forehead. He was too tired to go into deep theological debates with himself. 

Three weeks had passed since _Spectacular Spectacular's dramatic opening night. _

Three weeks of sneaking in and out of the hospital, the Duke an ever-present figure, striding down the corridors and bursting into Satine's room without knocking. Three weeks of flimsy excuses to explain  why the lowly writer visited the star so frequently. 

Three weeks of sleepless nights and tense days. 

Three weeks with only a kiss on the hand from Satine, and no more. 

Three weeks of praying, pleading, making bargains with God to save his love. But the churches around Montmartre were small and filthy with the sins of their clergy: places long since forsaken by God. But Notre Dame… Here was somewhere pure, somewhere that was clean enough, big enough, grand enough for God to live. Christian knew that God must answer prayers here: perhaps if he lit his own little candle and prayed, God would finally take notice. And maybe, he'd feel the peace he'd always heard of, the forgiveness for every sin he had committed… Except love. Christian raised his chin defiantly and sniffed. He would never apologise for that. 

_I __would rather spend eternity in hell with her by my side than face heaven alone_

Hunching his shoulders, Christian took one last look at the stone kings above the doorway and ran up the church steps, pausing at the threshold to take off his hat. He shivered in the cool of the doorway and then entered, the silence and the heavy scent of incense folding around him. It took a while for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, and when they did, he felt small and insignificant in the presence of such grandeur. Christian played with the hat in his hands nervously for a few moments, before following the other worshippers towards the eastern end of the church, where rows and rows of tiny candles were lit and prayers were made. There were no discrepancies here, no distinctions made between men and women, the poor and the rich. He watched an old lady, bent double over her cane, lighting a candle and murmuring under her breath. A young man, dressed in a dapper blue suit, top hat in his left hand, was clutching at a taper, his eyes fixed upon the stained glass window. It cast weird colours on him, bright reds and greens that seemed to flicker uncertainly as his lips moved in a silent prayer to the Virgin. 

Stiffly, Christian took hold of a taper for himself and found a little tea light at the edge of a row. The sunlight streaming from the stained glass warmed his back a little, but it didn't bring him comfort. He hesitated as a woman about his age stood next to him and repeated a prayer that Christian hadn't heard since he'd left home.

_Agnus Dei   
Qui tollis peccata mundi   
Agnus Dei   
Dona nobis pacem _

The woman glanced at Christian and gave him a sad smile.

"I hope that God will help us both," she said, and touched Christian's arm lightly. He jumped at the contact and stared after her as she walked briskly away. Briefly, he wondered why a loving God could allow so much pain in the world that his people had to queue to pray for help. Shivering despite the sun, Christian lit his own candle, repeating the prayer the young woman had said.

_Please_, he thought. _Save my Satine. I'll do whatever it takes_. A priest walked past, and Christian watched him pass, vaguely remembering his father telling him to confess his sins… Start again. He lit another candle, next to Satine's.

_For me.__ Please… save me. Bring me some comfort. Keep me well… for her. _

Christian had followed his father's instructions to see a doctor, only a few days after Satine had entered the hospital. After what seemed like hours of prodding and poking and drawing blood, the doctor had proclaimed Christian perfectly well.

_"Perhaps a slight cold, but nothing more.__ Be sure to come see me again in a few weeks… You can never be too careful."_

Christian had promised, had even made an appointment there and then. Because he had to be well. He had to be strong. He had to be able to look after his Satine. 

A breeze rustled through the church, flickering the tiny flames. Christian held his breath as his own candles flickered, but did not go out. He sighed, feeling strangely relieved, then turned on his heel and walked briskly from the church. He'd promised Satine he'd be there by noon.

* * *

_He's different now_, thought Satine. _More serious.__ Tired. She and Christian were seated by the window in her room. The doctor thought that the sunshine might make her feel a little better, but all it did was make her eyes itch in the light. Christian sat watching her thoughtfully, looking small and exhausted in the armchair. He smiled at her, but said nothing. She wanted to turn away, because looking at him, seeing how her illness had affected him, hurt her, stung her with poison, and yet she could not look away. Because it was Christian, and no matter what, he always filled her soul with peace. _

"Christian," she murmured, reaching for his hand. He grasped it and kissed her palm almost absently. She wanted desperately for him to do more, for him to reach across and kiss her hard on the mouth, but she knew he wouldn't do that. She'd made him promise that he'd keep his distance, and keep healthy, and Christian was a man of his word. And despite the ache in her heart, she knew that she was right. One of them had to be well, be strong enough for them both. She had never told him, but she was terrified. Terrified of dying and leaving him for God only knew what. Terrified that the illness would cripple her, or make her barren, and she desperately wanted to be perfect for him.

"I went to Notre Dame today," he blurted out. "I lit candles for us."

Satine didn't like to say that she doubted that God would listen to a prayer about a whore, but Christian seemed to guess what she was thinking.

"It doesn't matter," he said, slipping off the chair and kneeling before her. "You're better.  I know you're going to be fine… We'll be fine." He smiled, and for the first time in days, Satine saw a trace of the old spark in his eyes. "A few months, and this will all be a bad dream."

"Take me away, Christian," she said, the words bursting from her lips before she could stop them. "Take me away."

Christian moaned and buried his head in her lap. "We've been through this, Satine," he mumbled into the folds of her nightdress. "I can't risk it. What if you had a turn for the worse-"

"You just said that everything would be all right," she interrupted.

"Yes, because the doctors are here," he replied, looking her in the eye. "We've been through this, Satine… I won't risk your life."

"I can't stay here, Christian!" Satine cried, "I can't keep pretending that we're nothing and that the Duke is everything! I can't keep lying! I'm too tired…" She trailed off, knowing it was no use. It was an argument they'd had every day, an argument that went round and round in circles. 

In the beginning, Satine had asked Christian to take her away, far away from the hospital, the Duke, Paris even. She hadn't felt that there was much hope left for her, and the thought of spending the last days of her life with the Duke, hiding Christian away, had been too much for her to bear. She'd argued with Christian, insisting that he carry her away, at one point screaming at him. And always it was the same, tired answer.

_We haven't the money. You're still too ill – if we leave, it could kill you. What if we got caught? Where would we go? How would we live?_ And so on.

_I want to_, he'd said once. _But we can't._

He was right, of course. Practically, they couldn't go… But in her heart, Satine knew that she was right: if she stayed in this hospital much longer, she would die. And the Duke would soon find out about them – how could he not? – and what then? What would the jealousy, the anger, the sheer betrayal make him do? It was dangerous for them to stay, and dangerous for them to leave. It was a horrible trap.

"I will take you away from here" said Christian suddenly. She stared at him in surprise. "But not yet."

She sighed and kissed him on the cheek. "I'll hold you to that," she said, smiling. Christian laughed shortly and nodded. "I know."

"Christian!" The door burst upon, and Toulouse stood there, gesticulating wildly at Christian. "The Duke!" 

Christian stood up quickly, knocking the vase on the windowsill to the floor. It shattered, spraying water and yellow tulips over the floor. He swore and started to pick up its fragmented pieces. Satine grabbed his arm.

"Leave it," she said. "Just go!" Nodding and kissing her forehead hurriedly, he stood and ran out the door. Satine shuddered, and then shut her eyes. The easiest way to deal with the Duke was to pretend to be asleep. 

*

Toulouse had left his warning a touch too late: the Duke was striding towards Christian, Warner a pace or two behind him, carrying the most enormous bouquet of flowers Christian had ever seen. The Duke spotted Christian and narrowed his eyes.

"What are you doing here?" he snapped, his sharp little moustache working furiously above his lips.

"I was just seeing if Mademoiselle Satine would be well enough anytime soon to open the play again," said Christian hurriedly, aware that he'd used this excuse three times in the past week.

"I doubt," said the Duke icily, "that her condition has made such progress since yesterday."

"Um," said Christian. 

"For a writer," sneered the Duke, "you're being _very_ ineloquent _and inconsiderate. She is very ill and does not need any…" He stopped, staring at Christian. All too late, Christian realised that Satine had left a lipstick kiss on his cheek. He rubbed at it desperately._

"She, er, got a bit… emotional. About the play," he said, crossing his fingers behind his back.

The Duke didn't move, didn't blink. He looked stiffly past Christian, at Satine's door, and then his eyes flew back to Christian. "Oh," he said softly. "I see." Neither man moved for a moment (except Warner, who shuffled his feet slightly), and then the Duke swept past Christian, barely giving him a second glance. Warner scurried after him, glaring at Christian as he passed. Christian let out a sigh of relief but didn't move from his spot. He gazed after the Duke, at Satine's room, furrowing his eyebrows.

"Come on, Christian," said Toulouse, tugging on Christian's coat. "We should go home."

"Yes," said Christian, shaking himself, but he still didn't move. There was a low murmur of voices coming from Satine's room, and Christian strained to listen. Toulouse smiled sadly at his friend.

"She'll be alright, Christian… The doctors will look after her." 

Christian nodded dully and allowed the short man to drag him away, his grip surprisingly strong.

As they left the hospital, Toulouse clapped his hands together. "Well," he said, "where shall we dine?"

"Christian!" shouted a voice from across the road. Christian glanced up and saw his sister run towards them, heedless of the traffic around her. "Christian!" gasped the girl again, flinging herself into his arms. Tactfully, Toulouse greeted Emily by touching his hand to his hat  before walking briskly off. Christian smiled gratefully at his friend and patted his sister's shaking back. "There, there, Em," he said. "It's all right."

"No, it's not! Everything's just a perfect mess! We haven't seen or heard from you in three weeks!"

"I'm sorry," whispered Christian, "I didn't mean-"

"No, it's not you," interrupted Emily, pulling away from him, wiping her eyes. "It's…" She sighed and fiddled with the black shawl draped across her shoulders. "Well," she amended, "it _is partly you, but it's father as well."_

Christian smiled. "How is he?"

"Oh, you know…" She paused. "He's worried about you. He wants to make up."

"So do I," said Christian, taking her arm and leading her away from the hospital. "But he wants me to give up on Satine, and I won't do that." Emily was quiet for a few moments.

"You really do love her, don't you?" she murmured eventually. She smiled as Christian nodded. "Well," she continued, smiling faintly, "it was about time you settled down!"

Christian chuckled shortly. "It's a pity Father doesn't see it that way though… He just doesn't see that she's-"

"A person?" Christian nodded again, leading Emily into a park, empty tennis courts to their left, a little stream to their right. "What is she like?" asked Emily, suddenly.

"You really want to know?" asked Christian, surprised.

"Of course! I mean, if she's going to be my sister-in-law, don't you think I should know more about her? What?" she added, for Christian had stopped walking and was staring at her. "Oh, you don't think that we all think the same as Father, do you? Uncle Lolol, Mother and I, we all want to know more about her… If you love her, then she must be wonderful!" 

Christian grinned at her, and Emily giggled. "Really?" he asked again. "You don't think that I'm- I'm some sort of…" 

"Idiotic, romantic fool? Well, yes, we think you're that. But we love you anyway." She sat down on a bench. "Well, come on then. Gush about your love."

Christian sat next to her and rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully. "Well, she's… she's… beautiful."

"I could tell that," said Emily dryly.

"She's…" Christian shut his eyes, trying to pin down that wonderful, soaring feeling he felt when he saw Satine, the way he'd felt when he'd first laid eyes on her, and kissed her and talked to her about the past, and their future together. The way she looked when she smiled, or when they stayed up all night talking, making love as dawn spread her rosy fingers across Paris. He smiled. "I don't know how to describe her," he admitted finally, and Emily laughed.

"And you call yourself a writer!"

"If there's one thing I've learnt since being here," said Christian thoughtfully, "it's that there are some things that can not be pinned down by ink and paper." He paused, and looked at his feet, his old cracked shoes scuffing the dirt under the bench. "How is everyone, anyway?"

"Oh," sighed Emily. "The same. I mean, Mother's frantic with worry about you… Every day she comes up with some new, terrible thing that might have happened to you. She wanted to come visit you, you know, but Father wouldn't let her – he said that you had to… you had to lie in your bed."

"Hmm," said Christian, noncommittally, frowning at his shoes. Emily hesitated, but plunged on.

"And you know what Mother's like when it comes to Father… She becomes like a little mouse who can't say no. Probably why she married him," she added darkly.

"You shouldn't say things like that about our parents," said Christian absently, feeling that he _should say it, but privately agreeing with her. He had memories of his mother when he was younger, sitting in the park with him, painting pictures together. She encouraged him to go wild, splashing red, green and blue across the canvas in untamed extravagance, using his fingertips instead of the brush. And when he was done, even though the pictures were a frightful mess, she'd always looked at them fondly and told him that she'd put them on the wall at home. She never did, of course: Algernon had turned his nose up at the pictures, and Victoria had quietly folded the pictures up and put them at the back of her wardrobe. _

Once, sitting in the park, feeding the ducks with a three-year-old Emily, Victoria had whispered to Christian that she'd always wanted to paint the way he had done, using the wrong colours and her fingertips. He'd asked her why she didn't, but Victoria had only shaken her head and returned her attention to the ducks. As he'd grown older, Christian understood why, as he watched her worry the servants about making her husband's dinner precisely the way he liked it.

Christian had always believed that love only had the power to free one from the toil of life and soar above it all. But as he got older, and the distance grew between himself and the rest of the Evans', he realised that it didn't. Not always. Not in his mother's case.

When he'd announced that he would be leaving for Paris, whilst his sisters shrieked and his father shouted, Victoria had only smiled at her son and told him that she wished that she could visit the capital with him. But she couldn't, because she loved Algernon, and he wanted her at home. Before he'd left, Christian had had a blistering argument with his father (deciding that since he was already on bad terms with the older man, he might as well get everything off his chest) about Victoria. It had been hopeless: Algernon was stubborn and old-fashioned, and nothing could change his mind. A wife belonged at home, not gallivanting about, painting dreadful, abstract pieces. 

Dimly, Christian realised that Emily had continued speaking, and he forced himself out of his memories

"Lolol's been busy," she said, picking at her shawl. "He's gone all around Montmartre, asking about you. It seems like everyone knows the Voice of the Children of the Revolution." 

Christian snorted. "I doubt that I am… I just express what I feel."

"Which is what everyone else feels," smiled Emily. "He – Lolol, I mean – he's spoken a lot to that funny little man… Oh, what was his name? Toulouse?"

"Really?" said Christian in surprise. "He didn't say anything to me!"

Emily shrugged. "Well, I don't know what they were talking about, but Mother is just _thrilled_ that you're such good friends with him – she just loves his art!"

Christian smiled tightly. _But Father won't let her near him… or his art, he thought._

"And how are you?" he asked out loud. "You haven't said a word about yourself."

"Oh," said Emily, waving her hand dismissively. "I'm fine. Worried about you, of course, but… Well. You're all right, aren't you? You're in love, and that's what you've always wanted."

"Yes," said Christian, thinking of Satine, ill and close to death; the Duke; the tension; the distance he'd forced between himself and his family; the tears he'd wept every night; the terrible fear; the wonderful happiness. "This is all I've ever wanted," he said, surprised at the conviction in his voice. "All I've ever wanted."

* * *

Christian had intended to get back to his garret after visiting Satine, to change out of the formal clothes that he'd worn to Notre Dame, and then go to the Moulin Rouge and see what the latest news was. _Spectacular Spectacular_'s future was uncertain now; it hadn't been performed since Satine's collapse, and now the thing that Zidler dreaded above all was happening: advance ticket sales were dropping off. 

Instead, Christian found himself spending a happy afternoon with Emily, wandering around the park, gossiping idly about family friends and relatives. It was all trivial, run-of-the mill stuff: engagements, parties, scandals, marriages, illnesses; the usual rot that Christian had always found dull and insipid. But in the watery rays of the winter sun, he found that he liked it. It was safe to talk about other people's lives, easier to judge others than it was to judge oneself. For the first time in his life, he saw what it was that his father and society friends clung onto: safety. Bohemianism threatened to blow all that away and bring about a Revolution. Christian had never thought of Algernon as being frightened before. It was an odd thought.

Emily had left him at about six o'clock, long after the streetlights were switched on. Christian hoped that she wouldn't get in too much trouble with their parents when she returned to the hotel where they were staying. He hadn't asked why they stayed in Paris: he supposed that Algernon wanted to make sure that the black sheep of the family didn't do anything more disgraceful than loving a courtesan.

In the end, Christian had decided not to return to his garret, instead going to a florist to buy Satine a bunch of flowers. There was no way he could afford the type of extravagance the Duke could lavish on her, but at least he knew what Satine liked. With a little help from the smiling shopkeeper, he handpicked a bunch of white violets, pale primroses, deep red carnations, and softly scented wisteria. 

"Who are these for?" asked the shopkeeper, smiling kindly at Christian as she wrapped up the bouquet with white ribbon and brown paper. "Mother? Wife?"

"My wife," said Christian, too busy counting out his money to pay attention to what he was saying. The shopkeeper leant over to a small vase of blue flowers on the counter, plucking out a few of them, and wrapping them up with the rest. She winked as Christian stared at her.

"Every lady likes to be given forget-me-nots," she said, and Christian returned her smile. 

As he walked back to the hospital, Christian hummed. The moon was full, coating Paris with a white frost wherever the streetlamps couldn't touch with their bright light. Suddenly he felt like laughing, despite his melancholy. He was young, and he was in love with a woman who loved him back. His family were in town, and despite all the tension, he had spoken with his sister. He touched the slip of paper in his pocket on which Emily had written the address of their hotel; maybe in the morning he could visit his mother and take her to meet Toulouse, whom he was certain she would love. Then perhaps if the weather was still fine, he could take Satine outside into the sunshine… maybe to the park by the hospital, and they could feed ducks. And if they ran into the Duke… well, Satine would be able to think of something, he was sure-

Suddenly, something grasped the back of his coat and yanked him into an alleyway. Surprised, Christian tripped over backwards and sprawled heavily on the floor, knocking over a large wooden box, and a cat yowled. Something connected solidly with the side of his stomach, and he let go of the flowers with a pained cry and curled up around himself. As he lay there gasping, a pair of shiny black shoes came into his watery view and a hand picked up the bouquet.

"How sweet," sneered a voice somewhere above Christian. "Our penniless sitar player, off to visit his beloved." Christian looked up painfully at the two men in the alley with him. He couldn't make out the faces of his two attackers, but he could guess well enough who they were.

"What-" he began, and the Duke raised his hand. Warner kicked Christian again, and then hoisted him up off the ground, slamming him into the wall.

"Did you really think you could fool me? Did you think that you could keep it a secret?"

"Actually," said Christian in a thin voice, "yes, I -" He fell silent as he heard a barely audible _click and felt something cold and round press against his temple. _

"Silence!" hissed the Duke. He started to say something else but stopped, apparently too angry to speak coherently. Warner twisted Christian's arms behind his back painfully as the Duke collected himself. "I will not be made a fool of," the Duke murmured finally. "I will not have my… myself – I will not be toyed with!"

He was silent again. Shock slowly dissolved in Christian's mind, replaced by a sudden, blind panic. He struggled, but Warner only tightened his grip.

"Perhaps," said the Duke, "I can make an example of you, boy." His face came into Christian's view, bloodless and impassive. Christian swallowed. "Without you, perhaps Mademoiselle Satine will realise…" He smiled slowly. "She'll see the maharajah's true qualities… the advantages. Don't worry," he added sardonically. "You'll be a martyr to your friends, I'm sure." He turned to Warner. "Kill him."

And with that, he turned and marched out of the alley, still clutching Christian's bouquet in his hands.

"No!" cried Christian, wriggling out of Warner's grasp for a few moments, but it was no use: Warner caught hold of his shoulder and threw him back against the wall, face against the brick. Christian felt the gun pressed against the back of his head, and shut his eyes, waiting for the final shot.

There was a silence. Warner sighed. 

And then there _was a shot; or at least, there was a short, sharp rip in the air and Christian jumped. Something heavy slumped against him, and the gun barrel fell from his head. Turning slowly, Christian felt the heavy lump slip further down and then fall away altogether. He looked down and gasped in surprise. Warner lay on the floor, unconscious, the gun lying next to him. _

"Well," said a female voice, "he's not so tough."

Christian looked up and squinted into the darkness. "Baby?" 

The petite woman giggled, looking very different to her Can-Can persona, wearing a demure green dress and a scarf over her blonde head. Christian gaped at her. "Lucky I decided to come this way this evening, hmm?"

"What did you do?" he wheezed, holding his side, still breathless from Warner's kicks.

Baby Doll brandished a strangely familiar black case. "This is pretty heavy, especially for a little girl." She smiled wickedly, holding the case out to him. "I've got a pretty heavy swing. Harold was going to take it to her," she continued, unconcerned when Christian leaned against the wall instead of taking the case. "He said that it was Satine's and the Duke wanted her to have it, but Zidler didn't have time to do it. I said I'd do it, and they trust me with her things, so…" She shrugged as Christian finally took the case. "Pity I didn't have Chocolat with me – he would have _really laid into him."_

Nodding a little dazedly, Christian opened up the case, looked at its contents for a moment, and then swore, remembering bitterly when he'd last seen it.

"My," said Baby Doll, a smile playing on her lips, "I didn't know you knew words like _that." _

Christian looked up at her, away from the diamond necklace's enticing light. "I've seen it before…" he started. "I forgot how…"

"Yes," nodded Baby Doll. "It's no wonder it could knock out a fat brute like this." She nudged Warner's body with her booted foot.

"It's caused a lot of trouble," said Christian, looking back at the necklace. Baby Doll frowned and then shrugged again.

"Well, I'm sure you know what to do with it."

"Yes…" said Christian slowly. He looked up at Baby Doll again and smiled, a plan forming in his head. "I do. Thank you."

She waved a hand dismissively. "I've wanted to do that to that pervert for ages… He's always skulking around the changing rooms, whenever he can get away from his master-"

"The Duke!" cried Christian, hoisting himself up. "He's gone to Satine! I've got to-"

"Relax," said Baby Doll, catching hold of his arm to steady him. "He went in the opposite direction to the hospital – he was heading back home. I saw him."

"Are you certain?" asked Christian. Baby Doll nodded. "But he took my flowers…" He stopped talking, realising that probably sounded very stupid.

"I swear on my mother's grave," she said seriously. "He's probably gone home to plot… He'll let his anger fester for a while, and then decide what to do with Satine."

"Oh, well, _that's comforting," said Christian, pulling himself free from Baby Doll's grasp and limping out the alley, checking both ways as he went. Baby Doll followed him, laughing faintly._

"He thinks you're as good as dead; you've got a head start on him. And since you know what to do with _that," she nodded at the black case in his hand. "Well… I'd say you've got the upper hand. Better play it, before the Duke realises."_

Christian nodded, suddenly feeling very awkward. "I… thank you-"

"Josephine," she said. "My name's Josephine. It doesn't sound right when _you_ call me 'Baby'."

"I suppose not."

"What are you waiting for?" she said, after a little pause "That goon to come round?" She gave Christian a little shove.

"Why are you helping me like this?" asked Christian, turning to face her. He couldn't quite make out her face, her scarf casting a shadow over her eyes.

"Because… I like you. And I like her. And I need to know someone who is happy… It gets too damn depressing around here." She pushed him again. "The sooner you get moving, the sooner I can get back to somewhere warm." 

"I don't know how to thank you," said Christian, walking backwards away from her.

"We'll just say that you owe me one. If ever I need any help, I'll expect you to come galloping in."

"You can count on it," said Christian, smiling at her. He thought he saw her smile back at him, and then she turned her around, starting back down the road towards the Moulin. Christian watched her for a moment, and then stared down at the case in his hands, forehead creased in thought. After a moment, he nodded to himself and started to run, his sides aching and head spinning.

* * *

Satine lay in her bed, hands clasped together in what would have looked like a prayer to a bystander. But she wasn't praying. She felt that she was barely awake, floating on a current of sweet dreams and bitter nightmares, falling into neither and profoundly glad of it. Even the sweet dreams she had, dreams where she and Christian lived outside of the city in a little cottage, left an acrid taste on her tongue. Because that's all it was: a dream. Christian deserved a little house in the country, with a little wife to go with it, and she wasn't sure that she could be that little wife. 

Usually, these musings kept her awake for hours, tossing and turning in helplessness, but tonight she was disturbed. The door was flung open, and a breathless Christian flung himself at her.

"Christian!" she cried. "What are you-" She stopped, peering closer at his face. "You're hurt! What happened?"

"That doesn't matter," he said, grabbing her hand as she went to caress the bruise on his cheek. "Listen-"

"Who did this? Was it the Duke?"

"Darling-"

"-it _was_ him! Oh, I thought he seemed different this afternoon! All distant and thoughtful, and angry, and-"

"Satine!" interrupted Christian, catching her other hand in his own. "It doesn't matter."

"Yes it does! He _knows, Christian, and he'll-"_

"Satine, I'm going to take you away."

"Now?" asked Satine dazedly. Christian shook his head.

"No. But soon – by the end of the week – tomorrow even! I know where we can go, and it'll be safe, perfectly safe. It'll even be _good_ for you; it's in the mountains, all that fresh air-"

"You're serious," she whispered.

"Of course I am," he said, kissing her hands. "You're right – the Duke _does_ know. And he thinks he knows that I'm dead, but we've got the upper hand now."

"He tried to… didn't he?" asked Satine quietly. 

"It doesn't matter, darling. We're going to get away from him, away from the Moulin Rouge!"

"What about the show?"

"I don't care," whispered Christian, cupping her face in his hands. "I don't care about the show. We have each other… that's all that matters."

Christian leaned forward, and Satine shut her eyes, knowing that if he kissed her, despite everything she'd said and he'd promised, she'd kiss him back. But he didn't: he sighed and then kissed her hands again. Satine swallowed and spoke, wanting to break the awful silence.

"How are we going to…?" Christian smiled wickedly, and held up a black case. Satine stared at it, and then at him. "What's that?" she asked, a dim memory floating back to her.

Christian opened the case. She stared at its contents for a moment and then swore.

"That's just what I said," said Christian thoughtfully. 

Satine nodded. She knew that the diamond necklace couldn't have physically changed since she'd last seen it, that night in the Gothic Tower, but whereas it had looked beautiful then, it seemed vulgar now. Vulgar and ugly. She glanced up at Christian, who nodded at her silent question.

"This," he said, smiling almost fondly at the jewellery, "is our ticket out of here." 

* * *

**A/N Part Dos: **

_My son, keep your father's commands, and don't forget your mother's teaching._ [Proverbs 6:20]

_A prostitute will treat you like a loaf of bread._ [Proverbs 6:26]

_You cannot carry hot coals against your chest without burning your clothes_. [Proverbs 6:27]

_Agnus__ Dei_ (Lamb of God)  
_Qui tollis peccata mundi_ (Who takes away the sins of the world)  
_Agnus__ Dei (Lamb of God)  
_Dona nobis pacem_ (Grant us peace)_


End file.
